


Masque Night

by Kelaine (Ellynne)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, non-graphic past rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 96,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellynne/pseuds/Kelaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped by a curse, each night in Lord Maurice's castle, the revelers dance, celebrating their deliverance from the Ogres. Belle, mistress of Lord Gaston, endures it as she endures everything since her husband, Rumplestiltskin, died.  Her only goal is to protect their son, Baelfire--till Lord Maurice sells the boy to a vengeful Dark One. </p><p>Nominated for Best Rumbelle AU TEA awards</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Danse Macabre

She feels she is going slowly mad.

The court swirls around her as the music plays. Her dress is a deep red, a contrast to her pale skin. The skirt fans out, like the petals of a rose, layers of silk that flow about her with each move. The bodice is tight and fitted with a high collar held in place by a jeweled brooch. It cuts away, bare beneath the collar, to show everything from the hollow of her throat to as much of her breasts as can be displayed in Lord Maurice's court without causing scandal.

Like nearly all her formal clothes, it is Gaston's choice. Only the black dress, a mourning gown no one—not even Lord Maurice—can stop her from wearing once a year on the anniversary of her husband's death is one she chose. It is velvet and swathes her entirely from neck to foot. When she wears it a few weeks from now, her face will be hidden by a heavy veil and even her hands will be concealed in gloves. They will leave her in peace on that day. She will sit in the darkness of the small chapel with no one to care if she smiles or frowns, no one to demand that she speak or stay silent.

There is talk of a marriage for Gaston. She does not know if she should care. She remembers the promises Gaston made when Lord Maurice gave her to him as his "companion." He has kept them. She does not think he will abandon her or throw her away. Maurice had often told her in those first days that, if there had been a child, a son, he would see to it Gaston acknowledged him as his own heir.

But, her womb is a cold, empty thing. Rather like the rest of her. She had loved a man once, long ago (seven years, she thinks, it cannot have been more than seven years, but the gulf between these lives feels like centuries). She had wed him and born him a son.

Maurice frowns when he sees her child. More than anything else in the life before she was brought to Maurice's court, it is the child Maurice most despises. The rest could be passed over and forgotten. It could be spun into a fairy tale, the lost princess raised among peasants till fate intervened and she found her rightful place. All the rest could be forgiven ("forgiven," that was the word Lord Maurice used) if there were not a child to prove her crimes against her.

She bowed her head silently, knowing what Maurice was asking of her, pretending not to understand. She will face torture and death—she has faced torture and death—before she lets anyone take her son from her.

So, noble blood or not, she is no fit wife for such as Gaston, not without an heir of his blood to make him overlook her past. Two years have passed, and no child has come. She does not look for one and thinks Gaston and even Lord Maurice must have given up hope by now.

If Gaston marries, if he pensions her off, as lords do to hirelings who have served well even if they are no longer of interest, perhaps she will be able to live a life of quiet retirement somewhere with nothing but her own thoughts to trouble her at night.

But, if he abandons her, if he casts her out after Lord Maurice dies. . . . She shudders. She knows only too well what that can mean. She would sooner Gaston killed her than send her back to that.

But, if he does, what will become of her son? Maurice may look askance at the boy, but he has not stood in the way of his education. Her hope is for him to become a clerk or secretary in Gaston's court. Her son, she knows, dreams of being a soldier or a knight.

His father died in the wars. She remembers when word at last was brought to their village of the terrible slaughter. Word travelled slowly from the front. She had been a widow for a year before she even knew her husband was dead. She does not want her son to become a soldier yet knows she may have no choice. His fate, after all, will be decided by whatever Maurice or Gaston decides is best for him. Maurice was raised from a mere knight to a lord by the king for his deeds in battle. In his kinder moods, he might give the boy the chance to follow in his footsteps. Gaston, who knows how Lord Maurice gained his title, might stop the boy from doing the same.

Gaston is the one she must please, then, to save her son—her son who, someday, when he understands, may never forgive her for saving him. So, she wears the dresses Gaston picks for her, she fixes the false smile on her face and dances. Later, when they are alone, she will force herself to smile and dance again.

Or she will try to. With each passing day, it grows harder. She feels as if she is turning to stone inside.

And it should not. She knows what Lord Maurice rescued her from. She knows that, if Gaston will never love her son, he will not use him as a weapon against her. If Lord Maurice gave her like a prize to Gaston with barely a thought as to her wishes, at least he treated her as something valued and worthwhile—and Gaston accepted her as such. Life could be worse. It _has_ been worse. She has no right to grieve it isn't better.

But, she is relieved when the dance is over and Gaston moves onto another partner. She cannot escape the ballroom floor yet. It is her duty to dance with other lords. But, they are content with forced smiles and some careless conversation. Tonight is a night of celebration. No one presses her to put a word in Gaston's ear or ask what secrets she knows of Lord Maurice.

The war is over. They are safe. Why does it feel as if she has done this a thousand times before? Why does safety, so freshly won, taste like the dust of years in her mouth?

She is relieved when, at last, she manages to escape. Claiming fatigue and heat, she goes to one of the side rooms. Unconsciously, she finds herself reaching for her locket. It is bright gold, a gift from Gaston, though that is not why she always wears it. She is going to open it when she realizes she is not alone in the room.

Startled, she looks up, aware that something is wrong, though she cannot say why. It is as if this day is a pattern, set in stone and inviolate, though she cannot say why she is so sure of this. She knows what is supposed to happen next, and this man is not supposed to be here.

Yet, he is here, a figure in the shadows, watching her with contempt. He moves forward, his face hidden by the hood of his cloak. "Lady . . . Belle?" he asks. His voice is strange, high pitched and mocking. He makes her name sound like an insult, as though it were something dredged out of the gutter.

Well, he is not the first one to address her so. She has grown used to disdain. "Not lady," she says calmly. "I am Madame Belle."

"Ah, yes. Lord Maurice's little pet?"

She hears the jab in those words, too, though she is less sure of his meaning. Maurice has never been more than fatherly to her. "I am given to understand it was Lady Rosamonde who requested her husband summon me to court," she told him, still tranquil. Lady Rosamonde, Lord Maurice's sickly wife. Even tonight's festivities have not drawn her out of her rooms.

"Indeed? And does she find you as poor a payment for her efforts as I do?"

She has not seen him in the court before. She doubts a commoner would speak so of Lady Rosamonde. Perhaps he is a visitor from some other land? An ambassador for one of the ladies they hope to betroth Gaston to? That would explain his animosity. He sees her as a threat. How laughable.

But, if that is what he is, it would be wrong of her to do anything that could harm the negotiations. Besides, it has been a long time since she was able to feel pain at the words whispered about her.

"You are right that I can never repay Lady Rosamonde's kindness to me," Belle says, pretending to misunderstand. "But, I would never stand in the way of her best interests."

The man laughs. The sound is eerie, higher than his voice and inhuman. "Oh, wouldn't you? I—"

But, just then, Baelfire comes running up to her. "Mama? I have a message for you. I—" He stops abruptly, seeing she is not alone.

Belle pulls her son towards her, part affectionate embrace, part effort to shield him from this malicious stranger. For all his bravery, he is such a small child. Only six years old. "Bae, what are you doing up? I sent you to bed hours ago!"

Bae looks shyly at the hooded man, who (thankfully) stands quiet and absolutely still. "Lady Rosamonde wants to speak to you, Mama. She wants to speak to both of us."

Belle frowns. This is unusual. Lady Rosamonde's health has been poor for years. Belle has been in her presence only twice before. She hopes it isn't bad news.

"Perhaps she merely wishes to hear how the ball is going," the stranger says.

Belle's frown deepens. "A ball? It's been a long time since we had time for such things," she says. But, she knows there is something wrong. The Ogres are winning this war. She knows it. There is nothing to celebrate.

Yet, there is the ghost of a memory, a red dress and terrible weariness, as if all their dancing and merrymaking is only a prelude to this moment, trapped in the dark.

"Is that so? Well, perhaps times are changing." The stranger laughs again before vanishing into the shadows.

Belle looks down at her dress. For some reason, she is surprised to see it is pale gold, not deep red. There have been no balls, but Gaston expects her to always appear like a great lady. There are already too many who would like to forget any claim she has to being one. Like all the dresses he gives her, the neckline plunges far too generously for her comfort. It was one thing to appear like this in court where Gaston puts her on display, but Lady Rosamonde has been almost motherly the few times they've met. Belle wants to run back to her rooms and find a shawl to cover herself up.

But, if Lady Rosamonde has summoned her, there may not be time. She turns quickly, still holding onto her son. This is what must be done. She knows it.

It as if she has done this a thousand times before.

X

Lady Rosamonde lies in her bed, propped up by several pillows. Her face is so pale, Belle wonders if even this is too much of a strain for her. But, the lady smiles when she sees her. Belle does not think she is dying, not tonight. Her eyes, meeting Belle's, are the same bright blue. Her hair is the same deep brown tinged with red.

"My Lady Belle," she says.

Belle starts to demure, but her ladyship stops her. "Let me call you that, tonight. It should be your title, you know. Your mother was my sister, and your father was—is—a lord."

Belle looks at her, almost daring to ask, but she bites back the words. "I—I promised Lord Maurice I would never ask my father's name, my lady," she says instead. "I will not break that vow. I owe him too much." And, if there is any truth to whispers she hears, Bae is safer if she never knows.

Rosamonde frowns. "You don't owe him as much as you seem to think, my dear. Had my sister not fled, I would have claimed you as my own. Scandal averted, and you would have had your birthright."

Belle shakes her head, but says no more. She could demure that the lands and title belong to one of Maurice's blood, but she is afraid how Lady Rosamonde might answer that, afraid she will say something that Belle cannot pretend not to hear or understand.

Her eyes, her hair, her small build are all marks of Lady Rosamonde's family. But, there is something in the squareness of her jaw that is not unlike Lord Maurice.

"Let me see this son of yours," Lady Rosamonde says. She smiles as Belle pushes Baelfire forward. "Baelfire," the lady says. "That is the name you gave him?"

"It was a name of my husband's people," Belle says. "A strong name. I had to choose it while he was at war, but I thought he would approve."

"Your husband," Rosamonde repeats. "You know there are those who say he was no such thing."

Belle puts her hand to her locket. "Then they are mistaken."

"It might be better," Rosamonde does not sound as if she is trying to persuade her. If anything, she seems resigned. "A child of noble blood whose father is unknown is not the same as a peasant's son."

Belle bows her head. "I know," she says quietly. "And, for Bae's sake, perhaps I should." And, if she truly loved Bae—loved him more than a ghost—wouldn't she give him this? But— "I cannot. He's all I have left of Rumplestiltskin. I can't deny him."

Rosamonde, to her surprise (except, she is not surprised. It as if she has had this conversation over and over again instead of saying these words for the first time), does not argue. There is a weary sympathy in her eyes. "I understand. Forgive me for suggesting otherwise." Then, she manages to smile. "I am glad you found your way back to us, even if we have not made matters easy. I am glad to know Elise's child lives. Will live. That is what I wanted to tell you, Belle. You will live. You and your son."

Lady Rosamonde is ill, her mind wandering. Belle will not take away her comfort with cold, hard facts. But, the Ogres surround them. Avonlea has fallen. There is no hope (just as there are no balls for their deliverance, their victory).

"You don't believe me, do you?" Rosamonde says. "It doesn't matter. Tomorrow night, you will be dancing, celebrating the end of this war. And every night thereafter."

Belle humors her. "I will be glad to dance again, my lady."

"Call me Aunt," Rosamonde says. "This one night, call me Aunt."

"Aunt. Aunt Rosamonde. You must come see me dance, then, when the Ogres are defeated."

"Oh, my child, I wish I could. But, there is a price to be paid."

"My la—Aunt? I don't understand."

"There is magic," Rosamonde says. "A curse. Time will stop. Nothing that is not already within our borders shall cross them. And, within those borders, everything will be as it should." She sighs. "Or as close as Maurice can imagine. I love him dearly, despite it all, but his mind is not as creative as it might be. . . ."

"Aunt Rosamonde?"

"It's no matter," Rosamonde says. There is a knock at the door. Lord Maurice enters. He is startled to see Belle and Baelfire.

"What are you doing here?" he demands.

"Hush, love," Rosamonde says. "I sent for them. She's my sister's child. And he's her son. I wished to speak to them tonight. Can you blame me?"

"No, no, of course not." Maurice is troubled. There is a heavy burden in his eyes as he looks first at Belle then Rosamonde.

"It's all right," Rosamonde says. "I've said what I needed to. Belle, dear niece. And Baelfire. Know I love both of you. But, you must go. Now. Lord Maurice and I have other matters to deal with."

"Rosamonde. . . ." Maurice says. Tears swell up in his eyes. Belle, seeing them, looks at Rosamonde's pale face. The lady has been ill for years, but Belle wonders if matters of come to a head. Rosamonde's summoning her, her strange words. Belle fears she is dying.

"It's all right," Rosamonde repeats. "There is no other way." She smiles and reaches out, taking Maurice's hand and pressing it against her lips. "I know I am what you love best. And it is not as if I am going away. This moment will play out, again and again, each night as time repeats itself."

Belle, uncertain what is happening, takes Baelfire and hurries out of the room. She glances back once before the door closes. Lord Maurice can no longer hold back his tears. In his hand, he holds a long knife.

The door closes. The stranger is standing near her again.

"Just like you remembered it, dearie?" he asks, and the world shifts again.

"He's going to kill her," Belle said. "I—I don't understand. I know this. How do I know this?"

"Oh, she's been dead for centuries. It's about time someone noticed."

"No. She's alive. When we have the ball—" She stopped, confused. "There's going to be a ball—there's been a ball—It hasn't happened. But I know. How?"

He grinned. "Because it has happened. And will happen. Again and again. That—" He waved his hand towards Rosamonde's door, "—shouldn't be part of it, no matter what she said. The curse began just after. But, she's your aunt—Sorry, she was your aunt. I suppose that's why you get to relive this. Lucky you." He giggled.

She feels the malice radiating off him. No one, not even Hordor when she humiliated him before half the village, has hated her like this. "You're angry with me," she said, knowing that is too light a word for what she feels. "Why? What have I done to you?"

"Let's just say you remind me of someone. I had a wife once, did you know it? No, of course, you didn't. And you won't know it a day from now, which may be when I'll come back. Lovely thing. Faithful. So I thought. Till I came home and found she'd run off with another man. Of course, she got bored of him, too. Or was just ambitious. She'd worked her way up to a lord by the time I found her."

The numbness Belle wraps herself in vanishes. She feels as if she'd been slapped. She remembers Hordor coming to her after the news of the deaths of all the men the village had sent to war had come to them. She'd been a widow a year, he said. It didn't matter that she hadn't known. Her time of mourning was past. She was free to remarry, if she wanted. Or if she didn't want.

He said he'd send Baelfire away. He would have given him to the foundling home in Longbourne, a baby only three months old with no mother to nurse him. It would have been a death sentence. Hordor hadn't even waited for her reply before grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her towards him.

A madness had come over Belle. She had beaten Hordor off, driving him out of her house and into the street. Worse, she had done it in view of half the village.

Assault was a crime, a breaking of the Duke's peace. And the man she'd attacked was an officer in the Duke's army set up as ruler over their village. Hordor had been within his rights when he sentenced her to twenty lashes and a fine of thirty silver pieces, more than she could possibly pay.

A debtor who couldn't pay her fine could be auctioned off as a servant, bound like a slave to her new master till she paid back what he had given for her.

She thought Hordor meant to buy her himself. He had made a few bids. But, it was a ship's captain, just in at port and who had laughed and jeered during her whipping in the village square, who had bought her. Despite how the man used her—and sometimes let his crew use her—he'd let her keep Bae. And, he had finally made port in the Marchlands.

Belle's mother had given her a ring before she died and told her, if she was ever desperate—truly desperate, with no other hope—to send it to the lord of the Marchlands or his wife. Belle still remembered the gut clenching terror of hoping her mother had been right and the ring would bring her rescue.

It had in its way. Lord Maurice had freed her and taken her to his court.

Or not freed her. He had given her a place—a better one than Belle had had. Gaston was a better man than Captain Jones had been. He wasn't cruel. He never beat her. He didn't force Belle to come to him when she was too tired or ill, and she couldn't imagine him tossing her like a bone to one of his men.

But, he had tried to get her to send away Baelfire more than once. Not to an orphanage where he would starve. Gaston was better than that. He offered apprenticeships, wellborn foster families, lives that could be good and comfortable. Perhaps it would be better. Perhaps, as Gaston said, she was standing in the way of the life Baelfire could have as something more than the misbegotten child of a lord's misbegotten mistress.

Gaston might be right, too, when he said it was only her selfishness that made her cling to him. Protecting Baelfire, letting him know he had a mother who loved him and would do anything to keep him safe, sometimes, that seemed like the only reason she could face each day. Take him away from her, and she would lie down on the ground, unable to even make the effort to take a breath.

She was used to the insults. Even those who spoke pleasantly to her face, asking secrets or begging favors, whispered the stories behind her back. Lady Elise's secret child. Born in a midden, they said, and let herself be bedded by some peasant pig she'd found wallowing in the mud. But, she reeled under this strange man's words. Yet, the cold and emptiness inside her rant too deep. Voice calm, she answered him, showing only polite curiosity, "So, what did you do when you found her?"

He grinned. His teeth were discolored, jagged fangs. "Punished her, dearie. What else?" He looked at Baelfire, and the humor went out of him. "She had taken my greatest treasure with her when she went. How could I forgive her?"

The last ghosts of her pain and anger faded. Belle was only tired, so tired. "I suppose you couldn't," she agreed. The world began to blur.

They are safe, she remembers. The Ogres are defeated. Lord Maurice's lands are safe. Forever. He has decreed there will be a ball to celebrate their deliverance.

If it was deliverance.

Wearily, Belle takes Baelfire by the hand. "Past time for you to be in bed," she tells him.

She should be happy. They are safe. The danger is past. But, the knowledge brings no peace. She feels as if she has faced this a thousand times before, as though deliverance is just another trap.

She feels she is going slowly mad.


	2. The Cup of Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark One offers to free the Marchlands from their curse for a terrible price Belle doesn't want to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Sorry, I got distracted with finishing some other writing projects. I also thought people might be reading it on ff.net. But, I realized I was wrong. Sorry! I'm going to be rewriting a little as I go, but (knock on wood) this should go fairly quickly.

Belle steels herself as she stands up to formally toast the assembly before the ball begins. Her stomach is tied in knots, though she tells herself it does not matter. They are celebrating their deliverance. She could be staggering drunk and speak nothing but gibberish, and the crowd would no doubt cheer her tonight.

But, her words will be remembered tomorrow. They will be cut and dissected. Gaston and Maurice will both remember it if she shames them. So, she forces a joyous, welcoming smile and holds up her goblet, readying the words she has prepared.

As she opens her mouth to speak, a high, mocking titter cuts through the room. The sound of it unnerves Belle. The words of her carefully memorized speech scatter like dry leaves. She stutters, turning red.

The crowd turns towards the source of the laughter. A figure lies, propped up on his side, over the great lintel at the entryway.

He cannot be there. The lintel is broad but Belle cannot imagine how he has managed to prop himself up there, especially in such a position. And how did he get there? Lord Maurice's table looks down on the hall. How did none of them see this man climbing up there? It is not possible.

But, worse than that, Belle, who has felt as if the fabric of the world is fraying around her for . . . she cannot say how long. It seems as though it has been coming undone for years, for lifetimes, but she can only remember this weighing on her for a single day—Belle feels as if the fraying threads are being torn apart entirely. The unknown beyond rears up, dark and terrifying.

The figure giggles again. The sound is high and inhuman. He—it—Belle isn't sure which—is partly hidden in a hooded cloak. Beneath that it wears strange, tight-fitting clothes of dragon hide. Its body is like a man's, but nothing about it seems human.

"Lord Maurice, is _that_ your master of ceremonies? Well, that was rather a letdown." The creature swings its legs over the side, posed like a child kicking his feet as he sits on a wall. Then, he pushes himself off and lands lightly on the floor, as easily as a cat.

An aisle has cleared for him, people instinctively getting out of his way, and he walks down it. He comes slowly, though there is a jauntiness in his step, a cheerful energy at odds with the menace that breathes off him. He leaps lightly up to the dais where the high table is set. Ignoring Belle, he bows flamboyantly to the lord. "Lord Maurice, allow me to introduce myself." He rises up, pulling away his cloak. It swirls like the cape of a street performer, a grand piece of theatricality.

But, the creature beneath the cloak needs no showman's tricks to make the assembly gasp and back away. Belle, standing at the edge of the dais, has no place to go but over the edge and it is still all she can do to keep from taking that step. In form, he is like a man. But, his skin is lumpy and scaled, like the thick, pebbly hide of certain trolls or of the monster beasts, crocodiles they are called, she has seen in books. His eyes, as he turns and regards the crowd, are lizard's eyes, bright yellow and brown. The hands, lightly gripping the discarded cloak, end in stained, brown claws with fishhook curves. He gives them a smile of benevolent madness, showing rot-colored fangs.

With a flick of his wrists, he tosses the cloak aside. It bursts into flames then vanishes without leaving even ashes behind.

"I am the Dark One," he announces flamboyantly. "And I have come to save you from your curse."

Gaston rises at this, though Maurice remains seated, eyes grim. "You're too late, demon," Gaston says. "The land is saved already—with no help from you."

The creature, the Dark One, titters. "Oh, I wouldn't call it _saved._ I don't suppose you recall the details, do you? How your enemies were driven back? How your miserable lives were spared? And all the rest of it. No?

"Then, let me tell you. I suppose some of you have noticed the absence of poor, sick Lady Rosamonde. She's not here because her health took a sudden turn for the dead." He strikes a theatrical, mocking pose. "But, do not mourn her, my children. She gave her life to save you all. It just so happens she did a very bad job of it—isn't it so, Lord Maurice?"

Maurice's face might be carved in stone. Very slowly, he nods. "It's true. Rosamonde died. To save us."

"Yes, yes, my condolences. Which is why it falls to me to save you from her well-intentioned bit of providence."

Gaston looks from Maurice to the Dark One. "Save. . . ? What do you mean? The Ogres are defeated?" He looks at Maurice uncertainly. "Aren't they, my lord?"

It is the Dark One who answers. "Oh, I wouldn't say _defeated_. More like _dead of old age._ It's a very long, boring story but, centuries before even I was born, Lady Rosamonde's family became the guardians of a certain piece of very old magic, a curse. The curse has the power to reshape a land, trapping it in time, and closing its borders to any outsiders. Which she did. Of course, being a gentle, kind lady—" he says it mockingly, "—she didn't reshape your lands in any great, terrible ways. The damages the Ogres did have been undone, your storehouses are full to bursting, and no one goes to bed hungry or afraid.

"But, you're still trapped in time. You're celebrating the Ogres defeat tonight, just as you have the night before, and the night before that, and every night for . . . well, let's just call it longer than you can imagine, and leave it at that."

Belle sees disbelief on the faces around her, but every word echoes in her with the sound of truth. She remembers Lady Rosamonde's words the night before . . . was it the night before? How can she have forgotten them?

_ You and your son will live. _

And . . . things fracture in her mind. She remembers a man who was there. But, not there. Not last night. Not the night before. But, she has met him before, spoken with him.

She remembers how he hated her, though she still doesn't understand why.

Gaston starts to say something. She looks at him and feels sickened. Last night, when they first knew they were going to live. He summoned her to help him celebrate. He was drunk, though not too drunk for what he wanted. She remembers barely being able to endure his touch yet forcing herself to smile and laugh, as she always did, to do everything he wanted and more, ignoring the voices screaming inside her.

He is not vile, she tells herself. She has known true vileness. Drunkenness makes him crude, and there are times she can barely remember what it is like to crave that kind of human touch. But, she doesn't loathe herself for what she does with him. Or she shouldn't.

But, how many times has she relived that? How many more times must she? How _can_ she, now she knows?

_ Bae, _ she says his name silently, like a talisman. For Bae's sake, she must endure. She must _survive_. Because his survival has always depended on hers.

Whatever Gaston is about to say is cut off by Lord Maurice. "It's true," he says. "What this creature is saying. Rosamonde gave her life to enact the curse, to save us. It has been the same day, playing over and over again. For years, I think." He looks at the Dark One. "But, even if I knew how to break it, what happens then? The Ogres are still out there. Our homes were in ruins, our food nearly gone, before she cast it. How can we survive without her curse?"

"Ah, now, that's where _I_ come in," the Dark One says. "I can save you. I can protect your little land. What the curse has fixed will stay fixed. You'll still have the food and other supplies. The Ogres stay gone. I can also give you some protection from new enemies scattered around and help you find your footing in the bright, new future you’re about to find yourselves in—for a price."

Belle knows then. It's in the way Lord Maurice doesn't look at her, in the cruel way the Dark One smiles, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. All of this, his appearance in the hall, his theatrical posing, it's only an act. Maurice and this creature have already made their agreement. This is just a show, to explain to everyone else why their world is about to change—and what they are about to do.

And this creature hates her and wants her harm.

And he knows—the night they met, she saw it—he knows what will harm her. Her life, her death, those are nothing. There is only one thing that matters—only one thing she has let matter since she found out what being sold to Killian Jones meant—

The terror has already risen up before the doors beneath the lintel where the creature perched open. Two of Maurice's guards come in. They are bringing a smaller figure between them, a little boy who has no choice but to run to keep up as they drag him along, a hand on each arm.

"No," Belle whispers. She looks first at Gaston. He is surprised, but she can see him nodding, seeing the advantage of it. Though Belle has kept her promise and never asked her father's name, Baelfire is a threat to Gaston's inheritance. She looks at Lord Maurice. There is some regret in his face, maybe even grief, but he has already made his choice. Worse, he is sharing a look of understanding with Gaston. He wants Bae gone as well.

" _No!_ " Belle shouts it, desperate for words to change his mind. "My lord, you can't—"

The Dark One laughs. "Oh, I think you'll find he can, dearie." He points a long, clawed finger at the boy. "I want _him_."

"Mama?" Bae's voice is frightened. The guards are forcing him onto the dais, towards the creature who has bargained for him.

Belle puts herself between them, wrapping her arms around Bae. "No, you can't have him. Maurice has no right to him. He's my son, and I won't give him to you."

"Oh, you'd let all these people suffer for eternity rather than cut your apron strings, is that it?" the Dark One sneers. "Everyone else can go to blazes as long as you're all right, is that it?"

Gaston was walking towards her but he watches the Dark One. "Good sir," he says. "Forgive her. She's only a woman, after all. You can't expect her to understand these necessities.

"Belle," Gaston takes her gently but firmly by the arms, trying to pull her away from Bae. "He's right. This is for the best."

Belle tries to shove Gaston off, never letting go of Bae. "No. Gaston, _please._ He's my son. You can't—" She searches her mind for arguments, bargains, anything she could offer Gaston to keep him from doing this. But, there is nothing. He and Maurice want Bae gone. They had always wanted him gone.

Bae clings to her. "Mama?" he says, afraid. "What do they mean? Where are they taking me? Don't leave me, Mama!"

_ Don't leave me. _

She will get no pity from Maurice or Gaston. There is only one person left to appeal to.

Belle turns to the Dark One. "I won't leave him," she says. "If you take him, you take me as well."

The creature scowls. "And what am I supposed to do with you?"

The disdain—the _disgust_ —in the creature's voice should silence Belle's fears. But, the question itself—and the answer every man who's asked it in the years since her husband's death—makes her cold and sick inside. Human men have been bad enough. She looks at this creature and wonders how _he_ will answer it, what he will do with her.

What will he do to her son? What can he want with a small child?

There are answers pressing in on her that she doesn't want to think of. Even if this creature allows her to come, how can she protect Bae from him? She will only be trading one powerless slavery for another. What can she do?

How can she abandon her son? Whatever this creature means to do to him, however powerless she may be to stop him, she cannot let Bae face it alone, even if that is the only thing she can do.

"Do whatever you want," she tells the Dark One. "But, don't take him away from me."

"Belle—" Gaston begins, exasperated. But, he gives her up as a lost cause and turns his attention to the Dark One. "The lady is mine," he says. "She's my companion, as we say here."

The creature tittered again. "I didn't ask, dearie. I'm not looking for _love._ " He laughs again, unable to say the word with a straight face. "If she comes, it will be to scrub my stairs and wash the laundry. I've no other use for her."

"You heard him, Belle," Gaston says. "I forbid this. You can't possibly—"

She hears the bored exasperation in his voice. He acts as if she is an unreasonable child, as if Bae's life is nothing more than a plaything and she's the spoiled infant who won't put away her toys.

"No one decides my fate but me, Gaston," she tells him coldly, as if she is a queen and Gaston is a lowly peasant who presumed too much. It is such a lie. She thinks of Hordor, of Jones, of Maurice and Gaston, all twisting her life for their own ends.

But, there _were_ choices. And she accepted them. Faced with the same choices all over again . . . Belle doesn't know if she would have the strength to do what she did before. But, she would pray to be able to, to choose as she did once more. She accepts this choice, now. She looks this creature, the Dark One, in the eye and says, "I will go with you." Her voice does not allow for argument.

Naturally, he argues. "It's _forever_ , dearie," he says, scowling.

She is ready to scream. At him. At Gaston. At Lord Maurice who can sacrifice her son in this way. But, that will not help Bae. "Then, I will go with you _forever,_ " she tells him.

The creature scowls at her a moment longer. Then, his face turns as cruel and amused as a cat that realizes the thing annoying it is a mouse that is trying to crawl inside its fangs. He laughs. "Deal."

Only then does Lord Maurice protest. "Belle. Belle, you cannot do this. Belle, please. You can't go with this . . . beast."

She looks at him. It is as if he is only now understanding what has been going on in front of him, what she has offered, what the creature has accepted. He looks distraught.

Does it matter to him, what happens to her? Are the hints she's heard true? She knows he has never loved Baelfire, no more than he would love a mule born to a prize blood mare—less, since the mare would never have been able to cling to her foal despite all efforts to take it away. The mare would certainly never defend the union that had created it.

But . . . does she matter to him? At least, a little?

Does it matter to her if she does? Did he really think, if he took Bae away from her, she would just accept the loss and go on? As if her memory of her son and the husband she loved can be wiped away if Maurice can only find the right bit of magic to clean the muck of the past that clings to her?

It doesn't matter, she reminds herself. None of it matters. "My lord, Gaston, it's been decided."

The creature, still looking at her with cruel, hungry eyes, nods. "You know – she's right. The deal is struck. Oh! Congratulations on your brave, new world. I hope you enjoy it."

He snaps his fingers, and Lord Maurice's court vanishes in a cloud of purple smoke.


	3. The Dark Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Bae arrive at the Dark Castle.

The smoke cleared. Lord Maurice's court had vanished. They stood in a round-shaped entry room. Behind them were huge, thick doors, more heavily barred than the gates of Maurice's castle during the height of the war. Belle shivered. Wherever they were, it was far colder than the Marchlands, and her silk ball gown was barely any protection against the chill in the air. Bae, dressed only in his night shirt, pressed close against her.

The Dark One gave an extravagant, mocking bow. "Welcome to the Dark Castle," he said.

Bae clung to Belle. "M-mama?" he said. "What's happening?"

The creature's face softened. He crouched down, putting his eyes at the same level as Bae's. "I'm a bit of a wizard, Master Baelfire," he said, the harsh edge vanishing from his voice. "I've brought you to my home. Do you understand what Lord Maurice and I were talking about?"

"You—you wanted to take me away from Mama."

The Dark One shot Belle a quick scowl. "Not exactly." His face fell back into a gentle, coaxing expression. "You're how old, now? Seven?"

"Six," Bae said. "I'll be seven come winter."

"A very grown up six, then. You know the page boys who serve in Lord Maurice's court?"

Bae gave an uncertain nod. The gap between six and seven could be larger than a castle moat to little boys; and the page boys, sons of knights and nobles, knew they outranked all the other children in the castle.

"Well, boys are sent to train as pages when they are seven, aren't they? It's a very important job. I keep a smaller court than Lord Maurice, though I am a much more powerful. Kings have begged favors of me, I'll have you know." It didn't sound like boasting any more than it sounded like boasting to say a dragon weighed more than a lizard. "Well, I decided it was time to take at least one boy my service. Not just  _any_  boy, mind you. Someone special. And, for that, I was willing to pay Lord Maurice a very high price—anything he wanted—to have you released from his service and sent into mine." He gave Belle another scowling look. "Mothers usually have the good taste not to cling like limpets when this happens."

"Mothers usually release their sons into courts where they have family and friends," Belle said evenly. "And the boys are seven, not six."

"His birthday will be soon enough. I imagine you'll be willing enough to go by then. For now, let me show you your rooms."

"Can—can Mama stay with me?" Bae asked. "Please?"

The Dark One didn't look pleased but he gave in. "I suppose it's that or the dungeons. I wasn't expecting both of you. The only rooms prepared are for the boy."

"Thank you," Bae said. He shivered in the cold room.

The Dark One waved his hands and pulled a deep blue robe out of the air along with a matching pair of slippers. "For you, Master Baelfire. I can't have you catching cold."

Bae gratefully pulled them on, then padded after the Dark One as he led them through his home. Candles and torches lit their way—dozens of them, more than Lord Maurice had used to light the grand hall during the Yuletide feast Belle's first winter at the castle before the Ogres had begun to cut them off from trade and candles and the gold to buy them still flowed freely. The Dark One, despite his name, had enough light to turn a simple hallway bright as day. But, the windows they passed were all hidden behind thick, heavy curtains.

They went through a great hall, the kind for receiving guests. It was made to impress with the owner's wealth, Belle thought. Intricately woven tapestries hung on the walls alongside paintings that startled her with their lifelike images. Strange objects were scattered about like trophies. Some, like a gold cup encrusted with jewels, were things anyone could recognize as valuable. Others, like an odd, pointed hat covered with stars and sickle moons, she suspected were impressive only to other wizards and witches.

But, the long table, that could have easily sat two dozen guests, had only one chair. Odder still, a common spinning wheel stood in a corner, ready to use. It was a great wheel, the kind spinners stood to use. Those wheels had a reputation for being tricky among the village women. At least in the Frontlands, they were only used by master spinners like Belle's husband.

The pain of missing him, familiar but unexpected in this place, stabbed through her again.

The creature led them on through hallways and up stairs till they reached a large door. The Dark One flicked his hand, and the door opened. There was a large playroom on the other side. Shelves were bursting with toys of all kinds. No less than three toy chests, opened and overflowing with more toys, stood against the walls. Another wall had shelves of books and strange tools made of metal and glass. She recognized two, a kind of farseeing glass used on ships and another device used for judging latitude by the stars. She had seen such things in Maurice's castle as well as Jones' ship and knew soldiers in the field made as much use of them as men at sea, but she felt a chill down her back at the sight.

Unlike the other rooms they passed through, this one was warm and cozy. A fire burned merrily in the grate, and the marble floor was covered by a thick, jewel-bright carpet of the sort traders brought from Agrabah.

The Dark One regarded Bae's gaping face with satisfaction for a moment before throwing open another door. It led to a bedroom. A canopied bed, embroidered in gold with knights and dragons, stood against the wall. There were wardrobes, their doors open wide to show clothes fit for a prince. A door opened off to the side where Belle could see a large tub for bathing. Two trunks had been placed by the foot of the bed.

The Dark One grimaced at the trunks as if they were dead rats. "Your things from Maurice's castle are in those," he said. He snapped his fingers, and a trundle bed slid out on its own from under the bed. "For you.  _Madam._ " He repeated the title Belle had given him when she told him she was no lady. "You're not to make the boy sleep in it, do you understand?"

Belle nodded humbly. "Of course, my lord." If he meant to treat her as a servant, it was a role she could accept. She didn't think he wanted more, not from her.

But, what did he want from Bae? There were stories of witches who ate children's hearts and wizards who used their blood. There were far more ordinary, if more horrifying, tales of men who used children more cruelly than Jones had ever used her.

Yet, he was looking at Bae with something like kindness in his eyes. "Master Baelfire, you've had a very long day, all three hundred years of it. You need some rest." He turned his attention to Belle, his eyes hardening. "Madam, when the child's asleep, you'll find me in the long hall. I'll explain you duties to you there."

Belle curtsied, head bowed. "My lord."

He looked ready to say something scornful but looked at Bae and merely gave her a curt nod before leaving the room.

"Mama?"

Belle looked down at Bae. He was frightened and uncertain. What should she say? Tell him not to fear this creature who wanted Bae for reasons unknown? Terrify her son by sharing her fears? And what would this Dark One do to her if she did? She put lies and fears aside for the moment, forcing herself to smile. "He's right, you've had a very long day. It's past time you were asleep." He was still in his night shirt. Lord Maurice's guards had pulled him out of bed and marched him into the ballroom without even giving the child a chance to throw on a cloak to keep off the cold.

How? She wondered. How could Maurice do this? Even if—even if—

It didn't matter, she reminded herself. It was done. Lord Maurice had sent Bae away, and she'd followed—she'd  _chosen_ to follow. She opened the trunks and found Bae's things. His blanket was there, the one she'd knitted for him before he was born. He still couldn't sleep without it.

Was it a good sign that this Dark One had brought it? Should she take hope from that?

Bae snuggled up to the blanket—ragged and worn after six years of love—as Belle tucked him in bed. She stroked his curls. "Close your eyes, Bae, and let me tell you a story. Is there one you'd like to hear?"

"Papa."

Belle smiled. "All right, then. Once upon a time, there was a weaver. He was the greatest weaver in all the Frontlands, and he was kind and brave. . . ."

Bae smiled as she told the familiar tale, of how a weaver met a peasant girl and the happy life they'd had. The story soothed him. Before long, he'd fallen asleep. Belle started for the door. Then, she thought better of it. She didn't have to wear the clothes Gaston chose for her, not anymore. She didn't have to smile and dance and lie. She thought. She hoped.

She should be grateful. Lord Maurice had reminded Belle time and again she should be grateful. Grateful he'd answered her desperate plea for help. Grateful he'd taken her in. Grateful he'd given her a place in his court by giving her to Gaston.

She brought out her black dress. It was velvet, but the cut was simple and severe. It covered her from neck to wrist to nearly the soles of her feet. It was warm and its simplicity, at least, fit a servant. It was also the only dress she'd chosen for herself.

Belle took off the red ball gown and folded it away in the trunk (there was no room in the wardrobes for anything of hers). Reminding herself to be brave, she went out the door to find her new master.

X

Belle fixed tea while the Dark One explained her duties. He paced around her, coming close, then father away, giving her a feeling of being stalked.

Jones had done this. She remembered him leaning in over her shoulder as she worked. He'd laughed whenever she let him see she was afraid, telling her she was such a skittish, nervous thing as he put his hand around her throat. He had had a way of speaking gently as he threatened her or saying things that should have been pleasant but made her skin crawl.

She'd survived, she reminded herself. Bae was alive and so was she. They would survive this, too.

The list of chores the Dark One gave was nearly impossible, but she nodded mutely, accepting it. She looked down at her hands. They had grown delicate over her time in Maurice's court. She could imagine the pain they would be in tomorrow.

It hardly mattered. She could do what he asked, and her hands would regain their old toughness given time. But, the Dark One's anger was a tangible thing. The more meek and obedient Belle tried to be, the more she could feel it growing, till he added another task to the list.

"And you will skin the children I hunt for their pelts."

Belle dropped the tea set, staring at him in horror.

 _Bae_ , she thought.  _No, no, he can't—he_ ** _can't_** _—_

He watched her, smiling so she could see his fangs. He enjoyed her terror for a moment before saying, "That one was a quip. Not serious."

Belle licked dry lips. She needed to pick up the tea set, to clean the tea off the floor, and laugh at his joke—to pretend there hadn't been any cruelty in it. She needed to be patient. She needed to wait, to do what he wanted. As she'd done with Gaston. As (her stomach knotted) she'd done with Jones.

Her voice barely a whisper, she asked, "What do you want with him?"

He stared at her curiously, pretending not to understand. "Whatever do you mean, dearie?"

"My son," her voice shook with fear, despite her best efforts. "What do you want with him? What are you going to do to him?"

He sat down in his chair. "Whatever I want, dearie," he said. "Why? Do you think you can stop me?"

"No— ** _no_.** You can't. I won't—"

He laughed. "You won't what, dearie? You won't let me? You think you could get in my way? I'm surprised. I'd think you'd be grateful. A common, street woman like you. Look at where you are. In a great castle serving a great lord. Isn't that what you always wanted?

"Or do you really expect me to believe you care about the boy?” He went on with mocking sweetness. “You want to look at him, here at the end, and really see him and think about what might've been if I hadn't shown up? Is that what you want to do right now? You remember looking at him when he was the littlest babe. Helpless and all yours. Those big, big eyes full of tears, pulling at you." The mocking in his voice changed, becoming sharp as a knife. "Pulling away your money, your time. Pulling away any hope of making your life into something better for yourself. This pink, naked, squirming little larva that wanted to eat your dreams alive and  _never_  stop! How old is he now? Don't you want to be free of him? I gave you the chance. Why didn't you take it? Do you think you impressed anyone with your little act of motherliness? Do you think that oaf who bought and paid for your favors believed any of your playacting? Do you—"

"Enough!" It wasn't till she felt the sting across her palm Belle realized she had struck him in the face. She stared from the Dark One to her hand, horrified. Seven years. Seven years and three centuries ago, she had gone mad with anger and grief and damned herself and Baelfire. She thought she had learned since then. She thought she had killed everything inside her that words could hurt. Belle stared at the Dark One, wondering what he would do to her.

He stared as well, meeting her terrified gaze. He was the one who looked away first. "Clean up the tea," he ordered, his eyes on one of the tapestries, the one showing a unicorn chained to a tree.

Hastily, Belle began to pick up the pieces and put them back on the tray. Her breath caught as she realized one of the cups was chipped.

The Dark One must have heard her. "What?" he snapped.

"Oh . . . my. . . ." The words tumbled out. Too many words. She had already said too much, done too much. But, she had to answer. "I'm so sorry but, uh. . . it's . . . it's chipped." She held it up. "You—you can hardly see it."

He stared at it, as if he wondered what she was talking about. Then, he looked away again. "It's just a cup."

Moments passed. Her hands were shaking as she rearranged the cups and pot on their tray.

"What do you know of magic?" he asked abruptly.

Belle nearly dropped the tea set again. "Almost nothing," she admitted. She knew the common things everyone knew, wishing for luck, little rhymes to be said over warts, things like that. "Not—not about great magic. Magic like yours."

He nodded. "All magic comes with a price," he told her. His voice was no longer mocking, just tired. "When people come to me for deals, I let them know the price. They complain and moan, but I set the terms down for anyone to read. And I keep my deals. Always. I have never broken a deal—except once." He stopped.

Belle waited. Finally, not sure if it was what he was waiting for, she asked, "What was it?"

"I made a promise. To protect someone. I failed.

"Failure comes with a price, too.

"The price I have to pay. . . ." For a moment, his eyes met hers, searching. He looked away. "A child," he said. "A very specific child. I must find him and . . . care for him. As my own. That child is your son."

"I—I don't understand. Why Bae? I love him, but what makes him so special to you?"

"Magic . . . sometimes has odd terms. He's neither noble nor commoner, a little boy—not even seven, yet he's an ancient man—more than three centuries old. He is more unique than you realize. And . . . I will do what I'm bound to do. I will care for him. I'll love him, if I can." He grimaced. "It's not something I'm known for. But, I will look after him as if—as if he were my own son. If that's what you're afraid of, then don't be. You can trust me with him."

His eyes hardened again. "But, I don't need you. I don't  _want_  you. I'm giving you a chance one more time. Leave. I'll give you gold and jewels and anything else your heart desires. Just leave the boy here and go."

Belle believed him. Or wanted to believe him.  Maybe there was magic in his words, a spell to convince her. Maybe it was only that she'd learned to accept so many things, to ignore the pain and stop fighting what she was powerless to change.

But, it didn't matter if he was telling the truth or not. "No," she whispered. "I thank you. But, no. I can't leave him, not like this."

The Dark One nodded. "Then, tomorrow, you'll begin your work. And you will not trouble me with any complaints. Do you understand?"

Belle nodded.

"Very well, then. You're dismissed. Go look after your boy, if you must. I'm done with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two chapters were in present tense because of the way time worked during the curse. That ends as of this chapter.


	4. Eggs in the Basket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bae and Belle start their life in the castle

Rumplestiltskin stood outside his son's bedroom, uncertain whether he should go in or not. Bae might still be sleeping. Or he might be sitting awake in bed, terrified at the changes that had attacked his life yesterday. Rumplestiltskin hadn't wanted to frighten him. Belle. He'd wanted to frighten Belle, to terrify her so she would be more than ready to let him take the boy.

But, with her or without her, the request had to be made in open court, the terms and reasons explained. Lord Maurice's court was waking up to a world three centuries removed from the one they knew. The nobleman had felt _some_ explanation was in order. It hadn't seemed an unreasonable request when Rumplestiltskin agreed to it, not until he saw the guards dragging a small boy into the room, his eyes full of fear.

Rumplestiltskin looked at the door. He decided to compromise. Taking a deep breath, he knocked. There, that was done.

He could imagine Bae waking up. He would look around the room in confusion, not remembering where he was or how he had gotten there. Then, he would remember what had happened yesterday. He would look around and see—

"Mama?" Bae's voice called out, sounding small and lost. "Mama, where are you?"

Memory came flooding back to Rumplestiltskin. He had come as close to running as his ruined leg would allow since he saw the village over the rise that morning. The places where his bones had been broken felt as if knives were stabbing through them while the muscles around them were on fire from so much work, but he didn't care. He didn't see the faces staring at him as he made his hobbling race through the village, not till he reached the door of his home and threw it open only to see—

Dust. He remembered not understanding. Belle was a careful housekeeper. She never allowed dust to pile up, the way it had on the table in the center of the room and on his spinning wheel—and on the small cradle carefully placed beside their bed.

He'd seen, but he hadn't understood.

"Belle?" Rumplestiltskin called. "Belle, where are you?"

"She's gone." Rumplestiltskin would never forget the gloating sound in Hordor's voice. "She's left you, Rumplestiltskin. Women don't like to be married to cowards. . . ."

Rumplestiltskin swallowed, banishing the memory. Cautiously, he opened the door a few inches and looked in. There was Bae, sitting up in bed, a small blanket tightly clenched in his hands (Belle's work, Rumplestiltskin thought, then shoved it aside. He didn't need to think about Belle). Bae looked at his father in fear.

"Your mama's already up," Rumplestiltskin told him, trying to sound bright and pleasant. "She's fixed us breakfast and laid it in the great hall. Would you like to come and eat? Before it gets cold?"

Bae nodded uncertainly. Rumplestiltskin entered the room. Bae, he thought, was like a frightened sheep. When a frightened sheep had half decided you were a wolf getting ready to grab it in you jaws, the last thing you wanted to do was convince it all the way and send it running. Instead of coming straight at Bae, he walked to the side of the room, giving the child plenty of room if wanted to jump and flee. It wasn't that Rumplestiltskin expected him to jump and flee. But, whether he understood it or not, Bae wouldn't feel cornered and trapped.

He found the bathrobe and slippers he'd given Bae last night. He picked them up and put them on the corner end of the bed before backing away again—but not _looking_ as though he were backing away. That would make it too obvious he was trying not to frighten the boy, which would either let the boy think he was in charge (always a headache for an adult) or unnerve him because _the grownup_ was the one acting frightened. Centuries of negotiations had given Rumplestiltskin a razor-edged appreciation for nuance.

"There you go," he said, smiling in the reassuring way of a grownup who understands all the reasons a child might have to be afraid but who knows everything is all right— _really_ all right. He also kept his voice pleasant and gentle.

Bae, still skittish, grabbed the robe and slippers, keeping his eyes on Rumplestiltskin the whole time. But, he followed him into the hallway and, after a moment, let Rumplestiltskin take his hand.

Belle had done what he'd ordered. Two places were neatly set, even though there was only one chair (chagrined, Rumplestiltskin quickly conjured another). It smelled delicious. Rumplestiltskin doubted Belle had had to cook a meal for herself since leaving him. He'd half-expected to find burnt porridge and the charcoaled remains of toast, but this looked wonderful. However, that wasn't what had caught his attention.

Belle had made eggs in the basket. His favorite.

She couldn't know who he was, he told himself. And, if she did, she'd hardly choose this way to tell him. The curse had altered him, given him scales and lizard eyes. His teeth were brown fangs and his hands had matching claws. Before making his deal with Maurice, he'd altered his appearance even more, turning his scales as rough and pebbly as a crocodile's, distorting his face and voice. When he didn't sound like a mad imp, his voice was rougher and deeper than the one Belle would remember. She _couldn't_ have known him . . . could she?

But, Bae answered the question as his eyes lit up. "Eggs in the basket! My favorite!"

The fear—if it had been fear—melted away. Bae's favorite. Of course. Like father, like son.

But, Rumplestiltskin felt uneasy all the same. As Bae wolfed down his food in the way only a growing boy could, he looked down at his own plate. For the first time in three hundred years, he no longer knew what he was getting into.

X

Tying linen bandages around her own hands wasn't an easy task, but Belle managed it. She was exhausted by the time she made her way back up the stairs to the rooms the Dark One had given them. Her hands burned and ached. They were blistered from scrubbing stones and hauling water—the bucket for the Dark One's well was three times the size of the ones Belle remembered from back home, and it had been years since she had had to do anything that would raise a callus on her hands.

Now, besides the blisters, she also had dozens of small cuts from pounding and separating the strands of wasp nettles. The fibers had a tendency to snap loose and slash back, like a violin string pulled too tight. If violin strings were coated with sap that made your hand burn and swell.

Well, the Dark One had made it clear he was trying to drive her out. She just wouldn't let him. He was cruel but, really, they were such petty cruelties. So far.

Belle remembered some of the punishments Jones had meted out to her and to his crew. She remembered the bloodied remains of a man Jones had keelhauled. He'd lived for two days. She wondered what a wizard could do to someone who displeased him. Things worse than keelhauling, she supposed.

Belle reminded him of someone he hated. She understood that. She even understood why. A woman who sold herself, who went from one lover to the next, she deserved to be loathed even by the men who used her (as Jones had pointed out often enough). A choice had been given her—not much of a choice, but a choice all the same—and she'd taken it.

Belle remembered a part of her had hoped, when Lord Maurice had taken her from Jones' ship, that the lord of the Marchlands would go a step farther and punish the captain for what he'd done. Maurice let her know how petty and vain that was. Jones was a captain in good standing in the king's navy. He had done nothing dishonorable except in not recognizing Belle was better born than she appeared—and he could hardly be blamed for that, could he? Not when Belle herself acted like nothing more than a commoner. She had even (it was the horror Maurice could never get past) _bedded down_ with a dirt poor peasant, smelling of dung, and _born his brat._

And preferred that peasant to an officer and a gentleman, like Jones, and even to a great lord, like Gaston. He was the one she dreamt of and wished could hold her at night.

Maurice had reminded her, when she'd told her tale, she'd _chosen_ Jones. There had been honorable alternatives. But, to save a beggar's brat (Rumplestiltskin hadn't been a beggar, but Belle didn't correct Lord Maurice) she'd chosen to sell herself and share a man's bed. She wasn't to compound her sins by blaming an innocent man for her own crimes.

Jones, so Belle later heard, had been one of two officers trusted with a desperate mission when the tide of the Ogre Wars was already turning against them. He and his brother were to fetch a magic herb that could be used to stop the monsters. But, something had gone terribly wrong. They'd failed to get the herb, Jones' brother had died, and the magical sail that was the only way to get more of the herb had been destroyed. Rather than face his shame (and his king), Jones had fled, turning pirate.

Belle had been glad. She hated herself for it, but she had been so happy to know Jones was gone from her life for good. Even if he showed up at Maurice's door promising to save Belle's name by marrying her (something Maurice had suggested at the beginning he might make Jones do. Thank the gods, Lady Rosamonde had refused to consider it).

And Jones' brother. She should not feel this way knowing a man was dead—a man who was known as a hero, who had died helping to drive back the Ogres—but she remembered the times the brothers had met in port and Jones had ordered Belle to entertain the pair of them.

People would die because of the brothers' failure. Innocent people, killed by Ogres. She had no right to feel relieved, to feel _happy_ at what had happened. But, she did. She was worse than Jones, gloating over another's pain.

The Dark One was right to loathe her. They said wizards could see your heart. Hers must be a blackened, rotting thing, like fruit caught in an early freeze.

And, whether the Dark One knew it or not, he was kind. Her muscles might ache and her hands might throb, but she'd seen the way he looked at her. He didn't want her in the same room, much less the same bed. If this was all he asked of her, she could endure and be grateful—grateful as she'd never managed to be for Gaston and Maurice, much as she knew she should be.

She made her way up the stairs. Her dress was cold and damp. It sometimes seemed, as she'd slogged up and down stairs with the buckets, that more water went into her skirt than onto the stones. She hoped, if she hung it near the fire, it would dry out before morning. Not that it would stay dry for long. Tomorrow, there would be more of the same.

Bae was already in bed when she reached their room. She moved quietly so as not to wake him, finding a heavy flannel nightgown (Gaston didn't always want her company, and nights could be cold in the Marchlands come winter). She found a pair of simple, knit gloves as well and pulled them over her hands. Bae didn't need to see her bandages.

Wearily, she made her way to the bed, reaching beneath it for the small trundle bed beneath. She winced at the pain in her hands as she pulled it out.

"Mama?"

Bae was looking down at her over the edge of the bed.

"Bae, you're supposed to be asleep."

"Can't sleep. What did you do today?"

Belle forced her voice to be light. "Oh, lots of things. I helped clean the castle and pound up plants." She leaned in close and added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I _think_ the wizard must use them for magic. What did you do today?"

That got Bae going. He launched into an excited litany. The Dark One had shown him all over the castle (not all of it, Belle thought, he hadn't seen the kitchens. Or any place she'd been scrubbing). He'd asked Bae about the things he'd studied and shown him how to use a sword ("Just wooden ones," Bae said sadly) and read to him and shown him where he did his magic and asked if Bae could name the herbs hanging from the ceiling and taught him a funny game with cards with fish painted on them and let Bae teach him how to play kick-the-ball.

Bae babbled openly and happily. There was no hidden shame or fear that Belle could see. Perhaps the Dark One was telling the truth about why he wanted Bae.

"Did you make breakfast, Mama? The Dark One said you did."

"Did he? Yes, I made it. Did you like it?" It had been years since Belle cooked, but the kitchen had been full of so much food, bacon, eggs, flour, everything Belle could want. It was Bae's first meal in a strange place. Food, she knew, brought comfort in hard times.

"It's my _favorite_ ," Bae said. "But, why didn't you eat with us?"

Belle tried to smile. "Well, I had a great deal to do today." She mussed Bae's hair. "I couldn't wait for you slug-a-beds, could I?"

"Tell me a story, Mama?"

"Just one. You need to sleep."

Bae nodded eagerly, lying down. "I'll go to sleep, Mama. I promise. But, you have to tell a story."

"All right, then. This happened in the Frontlands, far away from here. . . ."

Belle kept yawning. Bae did too. She wasn't sure which one of them fell asleep first. But, in the morning, she was lying beside Bae. He had his hand wrapped around her bandaged fingers. She'd been so tired, the pain of his grip hadn't woken her.


	5. Soft Hands and Linen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple sees Belle's hands.

Baelfire had been at the castle several days, and Rumplestiltskin was beginning to relax. He'd been ready for his son to hate him or be terrified at the sight of him. He'd been afraid, when he finally broke through the spell into Maurice's castle, of finding Bae abused and neglected. It was something Rumplestiltskin had seen often enough in the bargains he'd made for unwanted children. A mother found a new lover who didn't want her spending time or money on the child of her last paramour.

Instead, after the initial terror of their meeting in the ballroom, Bae had warmed to him. He had an open heart, Rumplestiltskin thought, like his mother—or like Rumplestiltskin had once believed Belle had.

Maybe it hadn't been a lie. Maybe something had happened to change her. Or maybe her heart was too open and, with her husband gone to war, that smirking pirate had wormed his way into Rumplestiltskin's place.

But, she had cared for their son. Or she'd seen to it Maurice's servants did. Bae had been well-fed and well-clothed. He'd also been given the beginnings of an education. The boy was intelligent, though more excited to learn sword fighting than to study his books. Well, he was six. He'd been fascinated when Rumplestiltskin showed him how his spinning wheel worked and some of the basics of weaving, along with his other lessons. His natural curiosity had been nurtured and kept strong.

Things had been going well. Till this morning. Rumplestiltskin could see Bae was troubled. It was written all over him in the way he poked disconsolately at his boiled egg. Although, at age six, it could be anything from a bad night's sleep to a broken toy. Rumplestiltskin waited to see if Baelfire would tell him what was bothering him.

Abruptly, Bae said, "You can make medicine, can't you?" He looked up at Rumplestiltskin hopefully. "For sick people?"

Rumplestiltskin looked at Bae. There were no obvious signs of fever or other illness. But, he could see signs the he hadn't slept well, and the child looked worried. "Yes, I can. Do you feel ill?"

"Not me," Bae said. "Mama. She cried a lot last night. She thought I was asleep, but I heard her. And her hands bled."

"What?" Rumplestiltskin felt a moment's shock, followed quickly by suspicion. Was Belle using her son to try and make him feel sorry for her? She'd probably known all along Bae he could hear her "crying."

As for the blood, it was probably nothing more than a paper cut—or stains from fruit in the kitchens.

"Bae, I'm sure she's all right. She probably just cut herself in the kitchen. It happens." And he should give her extra chores for her pathetic playacting—especially if she was trying to turn Bae against him.

"It wasn't," Bae said. "She wears gloves when she goes to bed, but the red soaked through. I could see it. _Please,_ you have to help her."

Rumplestiltskin tried not to glare. As far as manipulation went, she'd succeeded very neatly in backing him into a corner. He wasn't going to get out of this, not without convincing Baelfire he was a monster of cruelty (which he was, but there was no reason for Bae to know). "Let's go find her, then," Rumplestiltskin said. "Even if it's only a blister, I can put an ointment on it." And let Baelfire see this was a great deal of pathetic fuss over nothing.

Their breakfast left behind, the two set off. Belle should be scrubbing the south hall today, Rumplestiltskin thought (he'd been careful to make it look as though a herd of pigs had come storming through, danced a few polkas, rolled around on the marble, and then taken care to shake off any mud that might have still been clinging to them before ambling on their way).

Belle was there, scrubbing at the stones, a large (heavy) bucket nearby. "Madam!" Rumplestiltskin said (he had no intention of using her name). "A word with you!"

Belle stood up hastily but couldn't disguise the weariness of her motions. Rumplestiltskin, glaring at her, had to admit she did look pale (though that might just be quite sensible fear at having him come hunting for her) and there were dark circles under her eyes. Perhaps she really was tired. Well, the tasks he'd given her _had_ been meant to wear her down, to convince her to give up and go.

The skirt of her dress was damp and smelled of mildew. Velvet was hardly the right cloth for lugging buckets of water and scrubbing at marble floors. Why didn't she wear something else? Then, he remembered the ball gowns he'd seen her in, light silks, plunging necklines, and corseted within an inch of her life. Were all her other clothes like that? Or (he glowered) was wearing a moldy dress just another way of manipulating Bae to feel sorry for her?

"Your son said you'd hurt your hands," he said brusquely. "Let me see them."

"It's—it's nothing, my lord," Belle said.

"I don't doubt it. Let me see them all the same."

Belle looked at Bae, who stood a little behind Rumplestiltskin, watching anxiously. Then, she stepped towards Rumplestiltskin, standing so he was between her and her son.

The child wouldn't see her "injuries" this way. Didn't want the boy to know she'd been making a great deal out of nothing, did she? She held up her hands, which were covered in black, leather gloves. Awkwardly, she began to fiddle with one, trying to take it off. Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. She was laying it on thick, wasn't she? "Allow me."

He pulled the glove off, a scathing comment already on his lips. Then, he saw the knit glove Belle was wearing underneath. It was made from white wool. Or what had been white wool. Now, it was stained, red in some places, urine-yellow in others, with reddish brown mixes of both. The yarn was damp with pus and blood. Belle had gone several shades paler from pain when he'd yanked the outer glove off, though she bit her lip and kept silent.

Carefully this time, Rumplestiltskin removed the wool glove. It was wet to his touch, even though the hand beneath it was bandaged, swathed in linen. As he began to unwrap the bandages, Belle gasped. She bit her lip again, holding back any other self-betrayals. He studied her face, seeing how she was trying to keep still and calm—and quiet. She was fighting not to let out the smallest whimper. But, he saw her pain in the lines around her eyes and in the way her shoulders tensed, anticipating the next blow. As gently as he could, Rumplestiltskin went back to unwrapping it.

The pus was from the blisters. Some had burst, some merely seeped around the edges. Blisters provided some of the blood too, oozing the red-browns stains he'd seen. Mostly, though, the blood came from thin, razor slices on her hand.

He stared at it, not understanding. He'd expected blisters on the first day. But, those should have begun to heal by now, especially if she’d been protecting her hands with layers of linen and gloves.

Except he'd given her the wasp nettles to deal with, and their sap would irritate the hurts and keep them fresh. The strands would sting her hands, making cuts in the skin.

But, not like _this_. He remembered Belle's hands, calloused and thick-skinned from all the work she did on their small holding. Yes, the tasks he'd given her should have been enough to work through that, to irritate the skin. It should have been like a small rash or a touch of sunburn. And a few, thin cuts. Enough pain, enough exhaustion to drive her back to her soft life.

Soft life. There'd been a night at Lord Maurice's, when Rumplestiltskin was still cautiously examining the curse and its people, when he'd disguised himself with magic and entered the ballroom (the courtier whose place he'd taken had slept that night in a closet). In a complex dance, as the people passed from partner to partner, he'd briefly held her hands for the few steps they'd been joined together. They'd been so soft. Like silk, like petals. They weren't the hands of a poor weaver's wife any more.

He'd known this. It had registered clearly in his mind. He'd been angry at the feel of them—this was what she'd left him for, soft hands and silk dresses. He'd glowered at her till she stumbled in her steps before he tossed her aside to her next partner, despising the soft feel of her skin.

He'd _known._ And he'd done this to her anyway.

Rumplestiltskin didn't bother with the stairs. He snapped his fingers, bringing the three of them to his workroom in a cloud of mauve smoke. He pulled out clean linen from the supplies he kept on hand—life-threatening injuries were common in people desperate enough to call on him and he liked to be to be prepared—and quickly rewrapped Belle's hand. With a wave of his claws, a small bench moved over to the wall. Rumplestiltskin led her over to it. "Sit there," he ordered, letting her lean back and rest. He went over to the tea set (if Bae noticed it was the same tea set that had been in the great hall while they had breakfast, he didn't ask how it had brought itself up here) and poured a hot cup, adding a pinch of crumpled herbs from a certain jar. Then, he breathed on it. He'd been called a dragon, but dragons were ice as well as fire. The tea cooled to lukewarm.

He handed it to Bae. "Hold that for your mother to drink. She shouldn't touch it, not with her hands." He remembered how even mild pressure could hurt a wound like that. And the warmth of the cup could be agonizing against raw skin.

Bae nodded, tight-lipped, and brought it over to Belle. Belle, however, was not quite as trusting. "What is it?" she asked.

"Tea," Rumplestiltskin said. "Mostly. And something for the pain. It may make you a little tired, nothing more." His voice turned rougher, almost angry. "When you bleed like that, your body needs water."

"Please, Mama," Bae said, pressing the cup towards her. He was frightened, more frightened than he'd been when he'd told Rumplestiltskin about this. Because the adults were taking it seriously. They were just as afraid as he was. But, being able to do something would make him feel less helpless.

Belle seemed to understand that, too. She managed a smile (more sincere than the ones Rumplestiltskin had seen her giving her paramour as she played up to him. This one actually reached her eyes). "Of course, Bae. If you'll help me?"

While they were busy, Rumplestiltskin quickly measured herbs and certain powders into a mortar and pounded them together. He put them in a small pot and added oil pressed from a very rare plant. He stirred it with a silver spoon and, with a flick of his hand, conjured a small flame under it.

Then, he got out a crystal bowl. It was cut and faceted so it glittered like a diamond. He filled it with water. After that, he fetched a small vial and added just a pinch of dried, crushed ice flowers to it. When the water took on a very slight glow of its own, cold and clear, he nodded.

He glanced at Belle. She'd finished the tea and was talking to Bae, still smiling. But, he could see how weary she was. All the same, the boy's fear had eased considerably. Rumplestiltskin sighed inwardly. It would be an act of petty malice to force Belle to stand over here for the time the next step would take. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but. . . .

He flicked his fingers, and another, small table appeared. "Make way, dearies," he said. Belle and Bae looked up and saw the table. Rumple waved it over, and it scurried towards them. Rumplestiltskin brought over the glittering bowl and placed it in front of her. "Bae, there's a hat down in the great hall, blue with stars and moons on it. I need you to fetch it for me, will you?" Bae nodded and scampered off. Rumplestiltskin began to unwrap the fresh linen he'd just put on Belle's hand. It was already damp, showing yellow in some spots and red in others, but it had served its purpose, hiding her injuries from the boy.

"Thank you," Belle said. "For doing this. And for not letting Bae see."

Rumplestiltskin lip twitched. She understood why he'd sent the boy off, then. That was Belle, always a clever one. "I should be thanking you. Or did you really not see what a perfect chance you wasted to make me look bad in front of the boy?" He finished with the bandage. "Here, put your hand in the water."

Belle put it in and gasped at the icy coldness, then let out a breath as the pain drained away. Rumplestiltskin began to remove the black glove from her other hand. Abruptly, he said, "I hadn't meant this." He glared at her, daring her to take his words for weakness. Or sympathy for her. "You know what I think of you, but . . . I hadn't meant this." He hesitated. Enemy or not—and she was an enemy—or, at the very least, a threat to everything he was trying to do with Bae—and a woman who would betray those closest to her without a second thought—despite all that, he was the Dealmaker. He knew when he owed a debt. And when it had to be paid. He forced the words out. "I'm sorry."

Belle didn't seem to realize how momentous those words were from him. He might as well have commented on the weather. "I agreed to your terms," she said simply. She gritted her teeth as the black glove came off and he started on the white one beneath. "You have nothing to apologize for."

Rumplestiltskin snorted. "Crippling you wasn't part of the deal. You're a servant, not a sacrifice." Both the gloves were off. He began working on the bandages. "How often have you been changing these?"

"The last two days, every couple of hours or so. Whenever I finish scrubbing and come back to the kitchen."

And they'd still nearly soaked through in that time. "How have you been treating them? Have you used any herbs or medicines?"

"I clean them with soap and water when I change the bandages. I found dried herbs in the kitchen to make a poultice, and I soaked them in cold water every night before bed. I think that helped." She sounded exhausted as she said it. It wasn't just the tea. Her hands must have burned with pain at night. Wounds like that could make it impossible to sleep, as Rumplestiltskin well knew. Then, if she finally did get some rest, the slightest movement—anything that touched her hands—would have been like being seared with a branding iron.

The last of the bandages came loose. He turned her hand up to look at her palm. "You scrubbed the floors with these?" he asked incredulously before lowering it into the water.

Belle gasped again, and seemed to shrink back. Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure if it was fear—or pretended fear—or just the cold shock of the water. "It—it was what you ordered," she said.

"Orders be cursed, how did you stay _conscious?_ " Rumplestiltskin remembered the pain in his leg when he'd crushed it—and the burning agony whenever it was struck afterwards as it healed. He remembered learning that what the storytellers and healers called red waves of pain was literal. The whole world could turn into a bright, blood colored haze.

Belle shrugged. "The gloves helped."

He glared at her, not sure if she was mocking him. "Well, you proved your point. It will take more than pain to drive you out, won't it?"

The blood drained from her face. "More?" she asked.

He frowned at her. He was letting himself get distracted, getting careless with words, something he almost never did. Rumplestiltskin remembered Cora and the way she'd tricked him. But, even then, he'd kept track of how he'd altered their deal. He just hadn't expected how she would play it against him. "More than I'm willing to do, dearie. For now. Round one to you. You realize this only means I'll come out fighting on round two."

She nodded very somberly. He sighed inwardly. This wasn't like Belle. Whether she'd agreed with him or not, she'd always at least _understood_ his jokes. What was wrong with her? Other than pain and lack of sleep and being carried off by a fiend to his enchanted castle?

Just then, Bae came rushing in, gripping the wizard's hat. "I've got it!"

Rumplestiltskin forced his attention away from Belle and smiled at the boy (careful not to show his fangs). "Back already? Come here and let me show you what I'm going to do. . . ."

The hat wasn't really necessary. All magic came with a price. What he was doing now had very little magic in it. The water had cooled and soothed Belle's hands, easing the swelling. If it did it more quickly and more thoroughly than normal water, well, that was a small thing. The same with the ointment he had brewed. Without the whisper of enchantment in it, it would still fight off any infection and help her torn flesh (Rumplestiltskin felt a stab of guilt. Even work roughened, Belle had always had the most beautiful hands) knit back together. The slight hint of magic that had been added to it would make her wounds heal faster and see that any infection lost the fight before it began. That was all.

He _could_ have healed her with a touch. He'd healed far worse easily enough, and yet. . . .

He had not meant to bring Belle here or give her any foothold in his life. Yet, here she was, and he didn't know what would come of it. Normally, when he offered magic, he saw the price clearly and set the terms to see it paid. Something told him anything with Belle was likely to be . . . tangled. Quickly.

Besides, he knew enough in simple terms to understand what he was doing _was_ paying the right price. He might not care about Belle personally—there might have been times over the centuries when he _would_ have gladly pulled out her heart and laughed as he crushed it in front of her—but Bae loved her. She might be more worthless and treacherous than Rumplestiltskin's own father, but he was beginning to believe she genuinely returned her child's love. As much as she loved anything.

He had been careless. He had done more harm than he meant—harm that could have driven the boy from him—because he couldn't bother to pay attention. It was right, then, that he pay for it now—with time, with care, with hard won supplies that would take more time and care to replace.

So, he held up the hat, pointed end down, and blew across the rim just as he'd blown across the tea cup. The flame went out and the boiling ointment cooled and congealed, the hat erasing any slight taint of dark magic from the brew. He took the pot and placed it beside the crystal bowl. After that, he fetched more linen and a towel. He lifted out Belle's hand, the one that had soaked the longest. The swelling was gone and the blisters had all receded. They looked far less serious than they had only moments ago, as though they'd been popped a day or two before and were beginning to heal. The cuts were closed, just thin, red lines. Bae still gasped at the sight of them. "Mama! Does it _hurt?_ "

Belle gave him a smile. Rumplestiltskin graded it as tired but sincere. "No, the pain's gone away. They're fine now."

Rumplestiltskin snorted. "They are _not_ fine. Not yet. But, they will be. Bae, watch closely. I want you to learn how this is done. . . ." He dried her hand with a clean towel, careful not to irritate the wounds, then spread thick dollops of ointment over it. "Don't try to be stingy," he cautioned. "Using too much won't hurt. Using too little will." He spread it between her fingers and made sure to press carefully around her nails—the space between the fingertip and the nail was easy to miss, but it was one of the most sensitive, especially if the cuts festered.

He showed Bae how to wrap the bandages, doing each finger individually, and how to tie them off. Then, he started to work on Belle's second hand. Soon, both were wrapped, her injuries hidden from view—Bae's or anyone else's.

"You should go back to your room and rest," he said brusquely. He glared at her again. "Obviously, I need to change your chores. I'll need time to think up the new list. In the meantime, you might as well catch up on your beauty rest." He would have added a sneering _you need it_ , just to keep her in her place, but he could see Bae listening to every word. He reined in his irritation. "I'll send down more tea. Drink some before you go to sleep. Bae, you're to help her with that. And with the buttons on her dress. Leave the thing out for me, and I'll see if I can't get rid of that smell."

"I—I don't have any other work clothes," Belle said.

She meant nothing she could get into without five maids tying a rib crushing corset onto her. Why did the nobles bother with such monstrosities? Belle was slender enough. Why risk breaking bones and bruising organs to make her look like a half-starved stick? "I'll provide you some. Is there any color you'd prefer?" He remembered a blue dress Belle had worn in the old days and the rose red of the ball gown she wore in Maurice’s court.

"Black," Belle said. "Please. If—if it's all right."

"Black." He stared at her blankly. "Why?"

She bit her lip. Then, her eyes fell as if she were ashamed. "I—I am in mourning."

He stared, not understanding. "Mourn—" then, it hit him, and he sneered. "Oh, yes. Three hundred years. Your husband must be good and dead by now. Did you finally figure that out? Or are do you mean Lady Rosamonde? She's been dead even longer, hasn't she?"

"Yes—No— _Please_. If—if it's no trouble to you—"

"Oh, no trouble at all." He leaned in close so he could hiss without Baelfire hearing the words. "I always enjoy _hypocracy._ "

He took himself away in a puff of smoke, back to the great hall. The food had gotten cold. He glared at the boiled egg (boiled. Instead of fried or made into eggs in a blanket. Because her hands couldn't manage anything more). There was an island he remembered on the other side of the world, hundreds of leagues beyond Agrabah. He remembered a food stall beneath a large tree in one of its more crowded towns that did tolerable meals. It was also as far away from here as he could get.

But, before he left, he made sure to send the tea to Bae's room along with some bread and fruit. Bae hadn't eaten breakfast, after all. And he would stop back on his way for some warm clothes. In black.


	6. Might Have Been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle learns a little more about Rumplestiltskin's past and about the curse he freed the Marchlands from.

Belle rose early as she had ever since coming to the Dark Castle. The difference was that, today, she felt well-rested and not afraid—not  _as_  afraid—of what the day would bring. She flexed her fingers, feeling them press against the bandages without any pain.

The Dark One said he hadn't given up. But, Belle had learned to take the good moments life gave her, no matter how short they might be.

She went over to the chest where her things were. The Dark One had taken her velvet dress. Though he'd promised her others, she expected she'd have to make do today. She sighed. All the dresses Gaston gave her were so awful—and so thin and flimsy in the Dark Castle's chill halls.

But, there were new clothes already folded neatly on top of the chest, three black dresses along with stockings, shifts, and everything else she needed. There was even a black shawl and two pairs of very practical looking shoes. She dressed quickly and quietly, careful not to wake Bae.

The buttons and ties were simple enough. She found, when she pushed the buttons through their holes, her fingertips were still raw enough to sting. It felt like trying to untwist the lid from a jar that didn't want to come off. Not painful, not exactly, but a warning that pushing much harder could become so. She was grateful for how few buttonholes she had to deal with.

The cut of the dress was a strange to her. She supposed fashions after three centuries (had it  _really_  been three centuries? Lord Maurice had believed it. But, how was it possible?) would have changed. What mattered was that she could move easily in it and that the cloth felt well-made and sturdy enough for scrubbing floors in. Odd cut aside, it fitted well.

Belle felt a small twinge of fear. She'd dealt with Gaston dressing her up like a doll and with Jones before that dressing her up . . . less like a doll. She put her gold locket around her neck and found her hand tightening around it till the newly healed skin stung.

But, the dress covered her as completely as the black velvet had. She didn't need to worry about what it did or didn't reveal. When she pulled her hair back into a simple braid, held in place with a black ribbon, she didn't need to worry about arranging it to hide anything. Not the way she had with Gaston, who always preferred her to have her hair hanging down her back when he summoned her to his rooms, just in case.

Never mind. The Dark One didn't look at her that way. She wasn't even sure he was a man. She found the thought comforting. Whatever he was, perhaps he found the sight of her—pale-skinned, scaleless and fangless—repulsive.

Belle stepped out into the hallway and went looking for the Dark One. She hesitated. He'd  _told_  her the castle would show her the way, but he hadn't really explained it, had he?

Belle looked up and down the corridor, looking for some sign. Finally, she cleared her throat. "Er," she asked the walls. "I need to find the Dark One. Can you help me?"

The candles lighting the hall one way dimmed. The others brightened. Belle swallowed. The magic she'd seen so far was always when the Dark One was present, snapping his fingers or waving a hand. Compared to taking her and Bae from Maurice's court to the Dark Castle in an instant, flickering candles were nothing. But, it was the first magic she'd seen here that happened when because of something  _she'd_ done.

Assuming the brighter candles were leading the way (not, she thought, a certainty when she was in the  _Dark_  Castle searching for the  _Dark_ One), she followed them. At first, Belle thought they were leading her to the tower workroom, but they veered off. She followed them up and down more stairs and through more corridors (and wondered if this was part of the "round two" the Dark One had promised her) when she saw the door to one of the rooms up ahead left partly open. The candles were lit by it but not beyond.

She would have knocked on the door, but it swung all the way open as she approached. She looked in and saw small room that looked like the corner of one of the castle attics back in the Marchlands. There were trunks, chests, and assorted boxes carefully piled, one on top of the other. Bits of old furniture were hidden beneath sheets to keep the dust off. The Dark One stood at the far end of the room by the window. There was an old, cedar chest in front of him, its lid thrown back. He was holding a rag doll in his hand.

It was a simple doll, the sort any little girl back in Belle's home village might have had. It had painted-on, pale-blue eyes and hair made from red-brown yarn. It wore a fanciful ball gown made from simple linen died a happy yellow—or a ball gown imagined by someone who'd never seen one. Of course, Gaston would never have given Belle a gown like that even if it were silk or cloth of gold. It's slight, embroidered bodice showed far too much shoulder and back (and not enough front, she thought sourly). There was something sad and faraway in the way the Dark One looked at it. Then, he glanced up and saw her.

The yellow streaks in his eyes blazed. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"You—you sent for me," Belle said, backing away. "You said to come—the candles showed me the way—I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

His glare turned to disgust. "Don't grovel. It's no matter. Only you took me by surprise." He looked at the doll. "Well?" he snapped at Belle. "I'm sure you have an annoying question or two."

Belle was sure she had had questions a moment ago, but they'd scattered in the face of his anger. She looked at the doll, desperate for something to say. She'd seen the melancholy look on his face, and he'd told her he'd had a wife. . . . "Did you have a daughter?"

He looked at the doll. There was a grief in his eyes like the grief she felt when she thought of Rumplestiltskin. "No," he said. He looked at the chest. Belle thought he meant to put the doll away and end the conversation. Instead, after a moment he said, "She was like a daughter to me. Her mother was a widow. She'd come to live in our village—I lived in a village in those days—after her husband died. It was a year after—after my wife left." He studied the doll morosely. "The widow suffered spells. She'd been injured in the same fire that killed her husband. A beam had fallen and hit her in the head. When the spells struck her, she just stared at nothing. Morraine—that was her daughter—wandered off during one of them. She was only about a year old. I found her crying on my doorstep. I helped care for her after that." He put the doll away in the chest and closed the lid. "They both died a long time ago. I couldn't save them."

Belle put one hand to her locket. "And, since then . . . you've been alone?" Impulsively, she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said. "I—I know what it is to lose someone you love."

He glared at her, eyes burning again, and she thought he was going to throw her hand off. But, he swallowed his fury and simply nodded. She thought, for a moment, there was even something like sympathy in his gaze. "Your aunt died to save you," he said. "It may not make the hurt less, but it's something. Hold onto it."

Lady Rosamonde. Belle felt a stab of guilt. She hadn't even been thinking of her—it seemed strange that the Dark One's mind would even jump to her rather than Rumplestiltskin. But, Rumplestiltskin had been seven years dead before Lady Rosamonde had done whatever it was she'd done to save them. Her husband had never set foot in Lord Maurice's court, and his shadow or echo or whatever it was of Rosamonde's that Belle had spoken to each evening for three hundred years had never been there for the Dark One to see.

And Belle still couldn't make sense of what the Dark One had told them, how Lady Rosamonde had rescued them from the Ogres. "I—what you told us—I don't understand," Belle said. "What was it Lady Rosamonde did? How did she save us? Why did. . . ." Belle swallowed then plunged ahead. "I saw Lord Maurice with a knife by her bedside. I heard what she said to him. He killed her, didn't he? Why?"

"Ah," there was a glint of malicious humor in the Dark One's eyes. "That's a long tale and—" He looked around the room. It was not so much a storage space for forgotten odds and ends, Belle found herself thinking, as a place where the Dark One hid his memories. "—not one I should be telling here." He led her out of the room and down the hallway. The door closed silently behind them.

"Lady Rosamonde's family had been the guardians of certain bits and pieces of old magic. One of them was a curse, a very ancient and terrible one. In the hands of someone more . . . creative than Lord Maurice, it could have been worse. He could have cast it and taken the Marchlands to another Realm, if he'd wanted. He could change nearly anything he liked in your little land, reshaped it as he wished—including a great many ills he could have patched up and fixed. But, I suppose he lacked the imagination to think of it. Even if he had, it might have been better not to. All magic comes with a price, dearie. This one was already costly enough.

"It gave you food, homes that were mended and safe, and everything else you needed. It also trapped you in time, forever living over the same day.  And it trapped you in place. If anyone tried to leave the Marchlands, something would happen to stop them, something unpleasant. It was a curse, after all. But, no one could get in, no matter how hard they tried. The ones who tried too hard—like the Ogres—well, let's just say that bad things happen to bad people. Unless the person's me. It took a while, but I found my way around it.

"But, all that safety the curse gave you came at a high price, the heart of whoever the caster loved best. That's why Maurice killed his wife. Without her heart, he couldn't cast the spell."

Rosamonde told him to, Belle realized. She'd heard what her aunt said to Maurice. And Rosamonde had been dying, her long, terrible illness finally working towards its end. Belle still shuddered, wondering how Maurice had been able to force himself to do it.

She looked at the Dark One. He spoke so lightly, as if all this death and loss were just a good joke played on Maurice and his subjects. "You know a great deal about it. Is it—is it your kind of magic?"

That amused him more than Rosamonde's murder. The Dark One laughed. "I came along years too late, dearie. The curse was long cast by the time I stumbled across your kingdom. Just finding a weakness that would let me through took long enough. Creating something like that, even for me, would have taken centuries." Then, his humor vanished. "And I couldn't have paid the price. The hearts I could have used were long gone. And, for what it's worth, I doubt I could have killed them, not even for this."

A set of double doors swung open for them. "Ah," he said. "This is what I needed to show you." They entered a large, round room (Belle thought they were at the top of a tower) full of books—more books than Belle had ever seen. Some had been properly shelved, others were rammed into bookcases or haphazardly stacked in the shelves, one on top of another. Others lay in piles on tables, chairs, even the floor. "This is your new task. As you can see, the place is a mess. You're to take care of it. Get them straightened out and organized. Keep them dusted. Oh, and tell me if you need more shelves. I expect you'll need to look through them before you arrange them. Take your time. There's no point in just throwing them around if you can't find them later."

"I—I—" Belle looked around, unable to believe what he was offering her. Books, so many books. And he was telling her to take the time to ready through as many as she wanted. How did he even know she loved books? They were the one thing besides Bae that had made life in Maurice's castle bearable.

What, she wondered fearfully, did this have to do with his second round and his desire to be rid of her? But, when she met his eyes, he seemed to be looking at her almost shyly, waiting to see how she liked his gift. "Thank you.  _Thank you_. I'll take good care of them. You have my word."

He nodded then turned severe. "You'll continue to make and serve breakfast, although I suppose you may as well join Bae and me when we eat our meals. If nothing else, it will let me keep an eye on you. You'll also serve tea and run any other errands I give you. And Bae. You're to keep an eye on Bae. I intend to see him educated, and he'll continue spending part of his day with me. But, I have work to attend to, and can't have him always under foot. He'll be your responsibility when that happens. Do you understand?"

These past days, the only time Belle had spent with Bae was when she was almost too exhausted to speak. This gift meant more to her than the books. "Thank you," Belle said. She tried to put her feelings into words, but it was impossible. "I know what you're doing for me." That was the best she could manage and it was so inadequate. "Thank you."

The Dark One scowled. "I'm only being practical, dearie. I may yet have to take on more servants to keep the boy out of mischief, but you'll do for now. Which reminds me, I need to change those bandages and see how your hands are doing. Then, you'd better get to work on breakfast. Bae will be waking up soon and expecting to eat. I have no more desire to deal with a tired, hungry six year old than you do."

This was wonderful, the kind of life Belle had only dreamed of having. Even if it was just a feint, a distraction before the next salvo in the war the Dark One seemed to think he was waging with her, Belle meant to enjoy every moment of it. If this was a trap, she couldn't stop herself from falling into it even if she saw the way out. And she didn't. If he meant to trap her, he'd won already.

But, later, as she put muffins into the oven, Belle thought about what the Dark One had told her about Lady Rosamonde's curse. Maurice had been able to shape their land any way he wanted too. He had even changed their memories, so they simply accepted that the war with the Ogres had been won.

If he could change their memories—if he could change anything in their world—

He could have given Belle a different life. He could have fulfilled Rosamonde's wish, making the world one where Belle had been raised as his and Rosamonde's daughter. And he hadn't.

Would being Gaston's wife have been any better than being his mistress?

In her heart, she knew it would be. Gaston wasn't Jones. He'd never been cruel to her, not really. But, there were rules in Gaston's world. A mistress' first purpose was to amuse her lord. A wife's first purpose was to command respect. The honor she received reflected back on her husband. He'd have expected her to do her duty, but there would have been none of the—none of the rest of it.

And, really, compared to Jones, Gaston's games had been almost innocent. And he'd never laughed at her pain the way Jones did.

 _Stop pretending, love,_ she heard Jones' voice whisper.  _You enjoy it, every moment of it. All women do. . . ._

Jones. Maurice could have let Belle forget about Jones. And he could have made a land where Gaston accepted Baelfire as his own son and heir, a world where she wasn't always fighting to ensure her son's safety.

She closed her eyes, trying to shove the thoughts and memories away. Lord Maurice, as Lady Rosamonde said, lacked imagination. The Dark One had agreed. Likely, changing the world so completely never crossed his mind, that was all. And he'd had an army of Ogres on his front doorstep keeping his attention. He'd had no reason to waste time on a minor, insignificant girl who (as everyone said) had already risen far above what a bastard like her deserved. According to the Dark One, that blindness of Lord Maurice's was even a good thing. The greater the change, the greater the price.

And why shouldn't Maurice ignore her? She knew the rumors, but that's all they were. Belle had promised never to ask, never to say anything that even suggested she had a suspicion who her father was. That some people said she had Lord Maurice's square jaw or that he had spent more and more time with his wife's sister than was seemly once Rosamonde fell ill, these were just rumors. They meant nothing. Lady Rosamonde might have claimed Belle as her own if Elise hadn't fled the court, but that was before her sons were killed in the Ogre War, when a bastard daughter would have meant nothing to Maurice's legacy. She could have been anyone's daughter, and Maurice might have adopted her to save his wife's family name.

And, of course, if Rosamonde had raised her, there would have been no Bae for Maurice to take into consideration, no half-peasant child with claims of his own—a child Lord Maurice would be willing to sell to a demon rather than risk him someday growing up to challenge Gaston's inheritance.

That the demon had been kind to Bae and even seemed ( _seemed!_ ) to care about him weren't things Maurice could have known, much as Belle wanted to tell herself otherwise.

And . . . it didn't make a difference, did it? Whatever had happened, Belle had food to cook and a meal to serve. She had a master who let her wear mourning, even if he mocked her for it.

Belle thought of the doll. Even if he mocked her, he understood grieving for someone you'd lost. Even if he didn't believe Belle grieved.

And none of it mattered. What Belle felt or didn't feel didn't matter, not when there were chores to do and another day to get through.

It never had.


	7. Monsters and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple remembers his meeting with Hook. The Rumple, Belle, and Bae attend a festival together with unforeseen results.

Back in the Marchlands, watching as Belle swirled around the dance floor, Rumplestiltskin had almost been tempted to relent. He'd felt an ache inside him. She was so much more beautiful than he remembered. He had known a poor peasant in rough woolens with callused hands and stray hairs always slipping out of her braid. Now, she was like a jewel that had found its proper setting at last. Her tall lover might not impress him (or anyone) with his wit, but he was a fitting match for her: handsome, of noble blood, and heir to all these lands. He was also (Rumplestiltskin grudgingly admitted) a great warrior, nothing like the coward she had married.

Rumplestiltskin knew enough about Gaston's part in defending the Marchlands to admit Gaston didn't just look like a balladeer's idea of a noble knighthood, all tall and shiny and just standing around waiting for someone to cast him in bronze; he was the genuine article. He had fought Ogres and planned battles. He had organized defenses and helped the Marchlands stand as long as they did. True, military matters had eaten up what little brain power he had. But, you can't have everything, can you? Tall, heroic, and less wit than a brick. If you didn't mind having to actually listen to him for the rest of your life while craning your neck to look up and pretend you were interested, Rumplestiltskin supposed he could see the appeal.

And he was tall. Had Rumplestiltskin mentioned tall?

Rumplestiltskin had been cruel when he came for Bae. He knew it. After what Belle had done, he told himself, he had a  _right_  to be.

And, yet, once he had Bae, once they had gone and left her behind, that would have been enough. He'd made his deal with Maurice. The Marchlands would be protected and prosper. Belle would have gone on with whatever she had with the stupid, man-shaped tower.

There had been times when he would have done worse. If he had met her in the early days of his curse, still giddy and drunk with power, still . . . _learning_ how to think and act like a man again (sometimes. Other times, humanity was severely overrated. Not to mention more boring than a conversation with Gaston), he could imagine the revenge he would have taken. He could have torn her still-beating heart out of her chest and let her watch as he crushed hit to dust before her eyes. Better yet, he could have taken her  _lover's_ heart and crushed _that_  before her eyes (the thought still amused him. It was just as well his deal with Maurice precluded killing his heir in interesting ways. Or uninteresting).

Even when he came for Bae, angry as he'd been, there was a part of him that was glad he hadn't met her again till now, when he knew he wouldn't hurt her. Much.

He had seen her glide through the complex steps of court dances as gracefully and effortlessly as a swan on the water. Her deep red skirts blossomed out like a rose as she spun, then closed protectively around her, like a moon flower facing the dawn, as she stilled.

Beauty was a shallow thing, he told himself. But, let her have it, beauty, and wealth, and the adoration of kings. He would leave her here, safe, protected, valued as if she were the princess she seemed.

And, if taking her son was a little like ripping her heart out . . . he could live with that.

Or so he'd told himself. Till he'd seen Bae dragged into the ballroom, shaking with fear. Till he'd seen Belle's terror and desperation as he tried to take the boy (and not felt even half the satisfaction he'd expected, no matter how he played the part). Till he'd seen Bae's own terror and known he couldn't be the dark shadow that ripped a boy out of his parent's arms.

Till he'd seen Belle's love for the son she'd born to a man she despised, a man she'd left without a backward glance.

Till he'd seen her work through crippling pain rather that break the deal she'd made that let her stay near her son.

They'd come to a kind of guarded peace since. He began to give the boy some of his lessons in the library when Belle was there. "All the better to distract you, dearie," he'd said when they kept interrupting her as she tried to work (which would have felt more like a victory if Belle hadn't been smiling so warmly when they did it). He watched them from his tower as Bae played in the gardens, his mother watching over him or joining in his games.

Then, one day, as Baelfire was busy working over a list of sums Rumplestiltskin had given him to figure, he pulled a book out of one of the still untidy shelves,  _The Tale of Britomart,_ and handed it to her.

"What's this?" Belle asked.

"The story of a woman knight, Britomart," Rumplestiltskin said. "She went on a quest to rescue her true love. She also rescued quite a few other people on the way. And saw the world." He saw the light in Belle's eyes as he said the last. Ah, yes, he might not understand everything she had done, but he knew her that well. "Read it and tell me what you think."

Over the next few days, he would ask a few questions, and she would tell him about which part she was reading. "I would have liked a magic spear like hers," Belle said wistfully at one point.

"To slay monsters, dearie?" He grinned toothily. "To slay me?"

Belle laughed and shook her head, amused at the suggestion. "In the story, the real monsters are men attacking . . . attacking anyone weaker."

"I seem to recall some Ogres who do the same."

Belle's eyes darkened. "Yes, that's why I would have liked the spear. I could have gone with my husband when he fought the Ogres. I could have been with him when. . . ." She shook her head, unable to say it. "I could have helped."

It shook him. Later, he thought of a hundred pithy things he could have said, words that would have drawn blood.  _Helped the Ogres finish him off, dearie?_ At the time, all he could see was the grief in her eyes, real and raw, as if the war were yesterday. There was none of the anger or disgust he expected and no justifications for abandoning her coward husband.

He spent a long time spinning that night, trying to make sense of it. She'd left him for another man. Rumplestiltskin had learned about Jones—Hook, as the mermaids called him—as he'd tracked Belle. The man was the last person he'd have wanted near his son, much less rearing him.  _That_  was what Belle had chosen to replace him.

But . . . he knew how cruel the villagers could be. He remembered the way they looked at him when he returned. Or didn't look at him, their eyes moving away in shame whenever he came by. They wouldn't even speak to him unless they had to. Except Hordor and his bootlicking toadies.

_Kiss my boot._

Rumplestiltskin remembered Hordor looking down on him while Morraine stood by, trembling. He remembered Hordor's eyes on the girl, the hungry light in his gaze as he took in her honey-gold hair, the way he lingered over the slight curves that were more a promise of the woman she would become than actuality. "It's treason to avoid service," Hordor said. "I'll take her now." He grinned at Rumplestiltskin. "She'll ride with me."

Till the day he died, Rumplestiltskin would never regret Hordor's death.

That had been the man ruling the village when news came of Rumplestiltskin's cowardice, of his survival when everyone else died. Even before that, Belle had faced the long months of pregnancy alone. There had been no one to help her, to try and lift some of her burdens as she struggled to maintain their small holding. When the time came and Bae was born, had she even been able to send word to the midwife? Or had she struggled through the pains and dangers of childbirth on her own? No one had ever told him. The villagers never spoke of Belle. Hordor never gave Rumplestiltskin more than crude, graphic speculations of her life with Jones. And her disgust with her husband. Rumplestiltskin knew nothing else of what her life had been during that year. Or how hard it had been for her.

He remembered the fear that had haunted him as his leg slowly mended. The seer had prophesied that, if he died, his son would grow up fatherless. So, he knew—he  _knew_ —his son would live.

He didn't know if Belle would.

Rumplestiltskin's mother was gone before he could remember her. There were women enough who died in childbirth or the complications after. Belle was so small and slight. As he'd lain in the healer's tent (they'd allowed him that much, a filthy pallet where the coward could lie untended in a corner, to live or die as the gods willed), it had hardly seemed possible her tiny frame could harbor another life and still live. He'd cursed himself time and again for his carelessness, getting her with child when he knew he would have to leave her, when he might die without ever seeing her again.

When he'd forced himself into his hobbling run when he'd finally reached home, when he'd thrown open the door and seen the emptiness inside, the fear that had risen up in him, the fear he wouldn't let himself name, was he had come too late and Belle was dead.

He'd never thought of her leaving.

_Women don't like to be married to cowards._

Maybe she'd been right. Maybe the scorn and viciousness she'd faced was already more than she could bear. Maybe—maybe she'd even been trying to protect their son. Rumplestiltskin remembered the casual cruelty that had been meted out to him, day by day. Had someone threatened her,  _hurt_ her, made her fear for Bae's safety if she stayed?

Years later, when he had his power, when Morraine was gone past even his ability to recall, Rumplestiltskin tracked down Jones. Disguised as a wealthy merchant with a load of goods to ship—and pretending to believe Jones' claim of being an honest businessman—he'd invited him to dinner at an inn while they discussed the deal. Jones drank glass after glass of wine, then shot after shot of rum. In return for the liquor, Jones poured out the sad, sad story of his life. He'd grown especially maudlin as he talked about the great beauty who'd left him.

"You never saw anything like her," Jones said. "Like one of the cathedral angels—" the town they were in was noted for the glorious diorama of angels on its cathedral ceiling, "—but down where you could get your hands on her, you know?" This had been followed by an earthy chuckle and a lengthy description of some of the things Jones did when he got his hands on her, and even lengthier descriptions of Belle's enjoyment of it.

Rumplestiltskin had made a promise not to kill Jones, not then, but it had been a near thing.

"She was insatiable," Jones had said at one point. "Sold herself in every port we went to. Always said I was the best lover she ever had, but it wasn't enough for her. Then, she went and sold herself to that lord. . . ."

There had been more, more than Rumplestiltskin ever wanted to know, but he made himself listen.

No, he might understand why Belle would turn to Jones, but he would never understand the rest of it.

Except—except—

He saw her with their son. He saw shades of the woman he remembered as they discussed books and faraway lands. Although, when he asked her about her own travels, Belle looked pale and turned her eyes away, saying only that she had never seen much more than the docks of any place Jones' ship had visited. Remembering Jones' story, he hadn't pressed her for a tale he didn't want to hear.

It might have been true, that she hadn't seen much of those lands. She pressed him with questions about the places he had been, her eyes alight with curiosity. The observations she made, based on what he told her or what she found in books, were intelligent and often shrewd—but they never betrayed more knowledge than she claimed to have.

The same thing happened when she served tea to some of the people—well, some were people, some weren't, not really—who came to make deals with him. She was always the proper servant (Rumplestiltskin wondered how she learned that, though he supposed she'd had servants enough since he knew her). Belle never interrupted or asked questions beyond a murmured query of how they liked their tea or was the chair comfortable enough for them? Her eyes always properly downcast (disturbingly downcast, Rumplestiltskin thought. There were lands where commoners didn't even dare look at their betters, but Rumplestiltskin hadn't thought the Marchlands were among them).

But, afterwards, she would ask questions. She was never too inquisitive. When Rumplestiltskin let her know a certain subject was off-limits or just between himself and whoever had come to him for a deal, Belle let it drop (that sometimes disturbed him, too, knowing how curious she was. But, he could see how life in Maurice's court would teach her when it was safer to let a question go).

Of course, Rumplestiltskin only let her deal with his safer clients. Some she saw might still seem terrifying, depending on her views of tentacles or razor teeth, but their business was innocent enough—or something they could make sound innocent while a servant was in the room. He didn't let anyone who might have tried to use Belle—or Bae—against him near her. When some of his visitors came to call, he told Belle to keep Bae in his rooms and not leave them till he told her (overcautious, he knew, with the protections he had on Bae and on the castle, especially on the wing where Bae and Belle were. That still didn't mean it wasn't a good idea).

She had become a puzzle, one he couldn't piece together.

That was part of the reason he made the decision he did. The other reason—the  _main_  reason (so he told himself)—was Bae. A boy should have a chance to play with other children his age. Although Rumplestiltskin wasn't about to set up an orphanage in the Dark Castle (even if the thought of the look on the Blue Fairy's face if she heard he had was almost enough to make it tempting), there were other ways to let Bae find some playfellows.

Rumplestiltskin waited till Belle brought him his tea to show her his preparations. She came in carrying a tray and a full set of cups—he might be alone _now_ but he had "forgotten" to tell her once or twice when he was having guests, just to see what she'd do (remain calm, that's what she did).

He couldn't resist grinning when he saw her, feeling quite pleased with himself. "Look at these and tell me what you think."

Belle put the tray down on the table and cautiously came over (he had, perhaps, given her reason to be careful when he grinned like that). He saw her eyes widen as he held up the hooded travelling cloak. It was, he knew, a  _magnificent_ travelling cloak. It was and lined inside and trimmed along the edges with black lelaundel fur (only in the warm lowlands did people practice the perversion of wearing the fur on the  _outside_ of the coat instead of on the inside where it could do some good). The outer cloth was black silk embroidered elaborately with more black silk and decorated with jet. It was a cloak befitting an empress.

"You're going somewhere?" Belle asked.

Oh,  _please._ Could she not see this was a  _woman's_ cloak? "No,  _you're_  going somewhere, dearie. The cloak is for you."

Belle paled ( _really,_  she did that  _so often. What_  was her problem?). "You can't—you promised—we had a deal—you can't send me away—!"

"Then, it's a good thing I keep my deals, isn't it?" he snapped. Doing Belle a good turn was like drawing teeth. From a hippopotamus. With tweezers. As he knew from experience. "It's almost All Souls." All Souls, the festival of the dead. It was a time to remember, mourn, and to celebrate the lives that were lost. "I thought you and Baelfire and I might go to a village near here. Your story will be that you're a rich widow on a journey stopping to observe the holiday." Keeping All Souls was important here in the mountains just as it was in the Frontlands. A traveler would be expected to stop and observe it—and the village in question would give a warm welcome to the stranger who stopped to keep it, even if she weren't clearly a very wealthy widow (which she would be) who would scatter a few gold coins before she left. "They keep a tolerable inn. Bae can have some time to play with children and stuff himself with soul cakes. And you can light a candle or two for the dead, if you've a mind. Here, look. . . ." He pulled out her black velvet dress, now repaired and good as new. He brought out another done more in the style of the Frontlands—or what had been the style for rich women in mourning three centuries ago (the village, which saw a fair share of those who came to make deals with Rumplestiltskin, would be unlikely to notice exactly how unusual that dress was). There were boots, new gloves (he hadn't even bothered trying to clean the pair she'd oozed and bled in), and everything else she might need.

Belle ran her hands through the soft fur of the cloak (Rumplestiltskin remembered her running hands through wool in the merchants' stalls, assessing its quality before buying any for him to spin). But, her eyes were worried. "A woman traveling alone, especially one who seems rich, is easy prey. Are you sure Bae will be safe?"

"Oh, perfectly. First, it's a very civilized, little village. Second, harming a traveler on All Souls? They wouldn't dream of it. Third, a good share of my guests pass through there. The villagers know not to cause strangers trouble. Some of them are stranger than they seem. Fourth, you will have me there as your manservant." He bowed as theatrically as he knew how. "I'll handle any trouble."

"A manservant. With scales and fangs. Is that common here?"

"I'll be in disguise, of course."

"Of course."

"Don't doubt me, dearie. You'll see. You'll have a wonderful time."

X

The Dark One couldn't resist showing off, Belle saw. From the moment their coach came speeding up to the inn doors then came to a sudden halt that would have been impressive if the coachman was handling one horse instead of four. Not that she was sure the black, shadowy steeds were horses. She'd never seen signs of any animals besides messenger birds at the castle.

The Dark One had turned himself into a man of average height, average years, and very average appearance—except for his eyes. Those were still his yellow-streaked, lizard eyes. The innkeeper had been startled when he saw those but recovered quickly. Belle wondered if he knew who his guest was.  But, the man showed no sign of fear or panic as he ushered them into a private parlor where a hot meal was already laid out for them.

The festival was barely beginning when they finished. Belle and the Dark One both agreed Baelfire could go out and play with the village children, who were gathering on the village green along with everyone else. In the Frontlands, children would go from house to house, singing cheerful prayer-songs for the dead and receiving soul cakes in return. Here, the Dark One told her, the children still sang, but the cakes were given out on the green before the dancing began. They had brought a large hamper full of them. The Dark One, playing manservant, carried them for her and set them out on one of the tables, joining the other offerings.

Musicians had already set up and were tuning their instruments while couples gathered. Belle had left her cloak back at the inn, only putting her black shawl over her shoulders. The village didn't seem that much farther down the mountains, but the weather was much milder. For a small village, they had collected a good assortment of entertainers. Belle saw a fire-eater and several jugglers, a dancing bear, and a dozen other entertainers.

The bear worried her. "Should we let Bae wander around alone?" Belle asked. She felt a familiar rush of fear. After so long at the castle, this village—so similar to the one she'd lived in—had been like a dream. She'd forgotten the dangers a place like this could have.

"He's watching the puppet show," the Dark One said, pointing. The puppet show was several yards away. It took Belle a few moments of searching to spot Bae. He was standing with a group of children, laughing at the antics of a foolish dragon and a cowardly knight.

"How can you see him?"

The Dark One wiggled his fingers. "Magic, dearie. Don't worry. He hasn't been out of my sight. And he won't be."

They wandered past other booths. The Dark One paused to watch a magician, the unmagical sort with scarves up his sleeves and a good supply of sparkly dust to throw in the air. When the man was done, the Dark One threw him a gold coin, much to Belle's surprise.

"He did a good job," the Dark One said. "Creating magic without magic is harder than most people realize. Besides—" with a flourish, he pulled out a gold coin, made it vanish in his hand, and pulled it out from behind Belle's ear. "—I admire a fellow practitioner." He tossed the coin to Belle, giving her one of his dramatic bows.

Just then, the musicians started up another tune. Belle turned, surprised. It was a dance song from home. She hadn't heard it once since leaving the Frontlands.

"How do they know that one?" she asked. "I haven't heard it in years—centuries. How did they learn it?"

"Is it from the Frontlands?" the Dark One asked curiously. When Belle nodded, he said, "There were refugees from the war who spread to many lands. I suppose one or two wound up here—or taught songs to someone who did." He looked at her uncertainly. "You're in mourning, but All Souls is a time to honor the dead. No one would think anything of it if you joined the dancing." He nodded towards some of the others lining up. Belle wasn't the only one in black. "No one would think anything of it if you didn't," he added quickly. "But, it  _is_  Frontlands music. I'm sure I could find you a partner."

"I don't know." Belle looked around at the crowd of strangers, suddenly remembering another crowd standing silently as Hordor meted out his justice. "Would you dance with me?" she blurted out then reddened. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No," he said. He gave her a smile. It was very small but it wasn’t mocking for once.  It seemed kind. He offered her his hand. "I don't dance often but I think I remember the steps. If my lady would care to join me?"

Belle felt a flutter of trepidation, wondering if she was getting into more than she realized.  _Don't be silly,_ she told herself.  _You asked him. And he offered to get you a different partner._ Sliding her shawl off and putting it by a tree, she took his hand and let him lead her onto the green.

Several of the tunes that followed were from the Frontlands, the dance steps only a little altered over the years. Others weren't too different from ones Belle had learned in the Marchlands. She was able to follow along without too many missteps. Some of the dances involved trading off from one partner to another. Belle started with the Dark One and came back to him at the end. But, the steps between were unnerving, as she went from stranger to stranger. She was glad to find herself safe beside him again.

They ended with the Ghost Dance.

Candles were brought out. Most of the dancers had brought theirs, though a few scrambled to booths to buy theirs before the dance began. The Dark One handed her one she was sure he hadn't had earlier. Bae, appearing beside them, looked very solemn and tired but (amazingly) not ready for an exhausted tantrum. The Dark One handed him a candle as well. The wicks were lit and the people holding them began to dance.

In the Frontlands, they said you danced the Ghost Dance together or you danced it alone. The candles were the only partners. People held the lights as if they were holding an invisible companion's hand. Some people, who had danced every dance, now stood on the side and watched. But, all the people in mourning, those who had joined in the earlier dances and those who hadn't, took their places on the green.

The steps were slow and thoughtful, easy enough for Bae to follow along. In this village, the singers were silent and no one spoke as the music played, but Belle remembered the words sung to it long ago in a village that might or might not still exist.

_Somewhere in a hidden memory_   
_Images float before my eyes_  
_Of fragrant nights of straw and of bonfires_  
_And dancing till the next sunrise._

They didn't dance till sunrise. It wasn't even midnight, Belle thought. Most of the people here were farmers. Harvest was just past but, even with today being a festival day, they would have gotten up before dawn to feed the animals, milk the cows, and tend to all the other work that couldn't be put aside till All Souls was over.

Belle went through the steps, thinking of her dead as she looked at the light in her hand, seeing soft brown eyes in a familiar face.

_I miss you,_  she thought.

When the music ended, the dancers blew out their candles. It was traditional to silently think a prayer at that moment as they stood in the dark. Belle doubted she was the only one who found herself pleading for the impossible.

_Rumplestiltskin, please, come back to me. I need you._

There were hands on her shoulders. "Here," the Dark One said, putting her shawl around her. "It's getting cold. We should be going in." Belle murmured thanks.

Bae chose that moment to turn into a cranky six year old up hours past his bedtime. "I don't want to go in," he declared. "It's too early!"

"Time for bed, young master," the Dark One said. "Everyone else is going."

"Don't WANNA!" Bae yelled.

The Dark One hoisted him up like a sack of grain over his shoulder. "Noooooo!" Bae howled. "Not tired! Don't wanna!"

Belle sighed. Bae could be a perfect angel most of the day. But, keep him up late (or let him miss meals—she'd been in terror of what Jones might do to the child sometimes when Bae had been forced to go hungry), and a little demon appeared. He wasn't the only child his age to be throwing a tantrum—some were even older—but it didn't make him any easier to deal with. "Bae, what would your father say if he could see you?"

"Papa's not here! Papa's dead!"

"It's All Souls Eve. He's probably watching you right now."

"And listening," the Dark One said. "I can guarantee he's hearing every word you say."

Belle shot him a look. You didn't mock ghosts, especially tonight of all nights. He gave her look of exaggerated innocence.  _What was wrong with what I said?_

As an argument, it seemed to work with Bae. He suddenly stopped howling and looked around. "Where?"

"Hard to say," the Dark One said. "But, much closer than you think, that's certain."

Bae peered into the darkness. "Papa," he said. "Thank you for sending Lord Gaston away. And Captain Jones. I hope his ship sank. Amen."

Belle reddened, not that anyone could see it in the night. "Bae—"

"No, no," the Dark One said. "As a prayer to the ancestors goes, what it lacks in form, it more than makes up for in sincerity." He gave Belle a sidelong look and, hard as it was to tell in the dim light, what looked like a sly smile. "Or do you disapprove of the sentiment?"

Belle looked away. "Whether I approve or not, asking the dead to call down curses is—is impious."

"You may be right," the Dark One admitted. "Fortunately, people can call down me, instead. It would be impious for people to treat me with piety, don't you think? So, there's no problem. Although, I think—" his voice turned odd, almost shy. "—I think your husband is watching out for you. More than you know." Belle wondered at the change in his voice but, before she could ask any questions, Bae gave a loud snore. Followed by another.

The Dark One's eyes went wide in the moonlight. "Is he always this loud? How do you sleep in the same room?"

"It's the way you're holding him," Belle said. A shoulder in Bae's stomach and his head lying lower than his chest. Of course, he was snoring. "Here, let me take him."

The Dark One handed Bae over. Belle held him in her arms, letting his head rest against her shoulder. The snoring didn't stop but quieted considerably. She paused and tried to wrap her shawl around Bae, but it was hard to do that and hold him at the same time.

"Let me," the Dark One said. Belle stood still as he adjusted the shawl so it covered both of them. "How's that?"

"It's good, thank you—and, thank you. For taking us here. And—and for dancing with me."

"It was my pleasure." The smile he gave her this time had no edge of mocking or irony. Belle felt a cold shiver, but his next words reassured her. "I mean to be a good foster father to Bae," he went on. "I know my reasons for taking him see strange, but I mean to do right by him."

He had also been among the people holding a candle this night. "The deal you made to protect someone. That was Morraine?"

He was silent. She didn't know if he was angry, or surprised she'd asked, or just searching for the right answer. The silence stretched on, and Belle found herself clutching Bae protectively, not sure what the Dark One would do. ". . . .Yes," he said finally. There was a ragged edge to his voice. "I promised to protect her and her mother. To keep them safe." He looked at Bae and gently touched his tousled curls. "I swear to you, I won't fail again."

They reached the inn. The innkeeper was there. Belle wondered if he'd been to the festival or if he spent the whole night here, waiting for guests to return. Or maybe he had some magic or his own. Maybe, like the Dark One taking them to his castle in an instant, the innkeeper magically appeared at his door every time there were guests, no matter where he'd been. That could be inconvenient if he'd been in the privy. . . . Belle decided Bae wasn't the only one who was tired. She smiled at the innkeeper as he assured them there were fresh sheets on the beds, good fires built up on the hearths, and hot bricks tucked under the blankets to keep them warm.

They went up to their rooms. The one she and Bae shared had two beds in it. The Dark One had his own chamber but he helped her put Bae to bed, pulling down the blankets as she lowered Bae in before finding his nightclothes. The poor mite was worn out, Belle thought. Little boys and puppies, they could be all energy one minute and completely collapse the next. He didn't come close to waking even once as they got him undressed and into his nightshirt.

"Are you using a spell on him?" Belle whispered.

"No." He looked at her innocently. "Are you?"

Belle laughed then covered her mouth, smothering it. Just because Bae slept like a log was no reason to push her luck. "If mothers knew a spell for that, all of us would be using it."

"Hmm, and with dire consequences for the world as we know it, no doubt," the Dark One said, grinning as he tucked the blankets in around Bae. He put away Bae's shoes while Belle folded his clothes. As she put them in Bae's trunk—the Dark One thought they looked more convincing as travelers with trunks instead of just a small satchel for one change of clothes—he reached over to hang Bae's travel cloak on the peg near it. Then, the Dark One’s hand closed over hers.

Belle felt a surge of fear.  _No,_ she told herself.  _That's not what he means by it._ It was just their hands meeting by chance. Or a friendly gesture. Or—

But, his hand was still holding hers before he gently turned her towards him. Gaston was rarely gentle—not harsh or cruel, but not  _gentle_ —but Jones sometimes was. When he began. Never by the time he ended.

_The Dark One's not like that. He doesn't look at me that way. He_ **can't** _—_ For a moment, looking in his eyes, she thought she must be wrong, there was nothing to be afraid of. He looked at her so kindly.

Then, his other hand brushed against her cheek. The hand that had held hers released it, slipping around her waist and drawing her closer to him. "Madam—" he whispered, his voice husky. " _Belle._ I. . . ." The hand that had brushed her cheek touched her lips. He leaned in, about to kiss her.

She shoved him away, stepping back from him. Her legs bumped against the bed behind her. There was no place else to go. She'd seen how strong he was, and she was small and weak. The Dark One didn't need spells to beat men like Gaston and Jones. He could just break them with his bare hands. There was nothing she could do to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to her.

The Dark One's face went from surprised to irritated. "Does this form not please you, my lady?" he said, the mocking edge back in his voice. He changed, and Gaston stood in front of her in all his court finery. "Is this better?"

Belle pressed back against the bed, shaking her head, horrified.

"No? What about this? Do you prefer  _this?_ " And he turned into Jones.

Belle's knees were shaking. She collapsed onto the bed, unable to stand, even though that was the last place she wanted to be. She turned away, unable to look at  _that_  face, closing her eyes to block it out. It didn't help. He would take her—he would force her—with Bae only a few feet away from them. She felt herself shaking.

_Don't cry,_ she told herself.  _Don't wake Bae. Don't let him see—_ Crying had excited Jones and made him crueler. But, there were times she had been too numb and hurt to cry any more or do more than lie there dumbly as he hurt her. Those times had made him furious.

But, she couldn't wake Bae. She couldn't let him see this. She  _couldn't._

She heard the Dark One make a sound of disgust. "It's no matter, Madam. You've made your feelings perfectly clear. I bid you goodnight." Then, she heard the door close.

Belle looked up and realized the Dark one had left. She was alone in the room.

Belle didn't undress or get into bed, she didn't dare. But, she gathered up one of the blankets and shoved it against her mouth to muffle the sound as she sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines from The Ghost Dance song Belle remembers are from Loreena McKennitt's All Soul's Night. While I love McKennitt's music, the rest of the words to The Ghost Dance are different as is the music. It has a more spectral quality.


	8. Back to the Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple broods over the past and doesn't know why Belle is upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the Ursula in this chapter before the Queens of Darkness arc. She's a cross between the Ursula in the movie and the one in the show, less than a goddess but more than a mermaid.

Rumplestiltskin was in a foul mood when they returned to the castle. The only satisfaction he had was that Belle looked like she'd spent a sleepless night as well, pale with dark circles under her eyes. Not that she told him she’d had a bad night.  She didn't want to talk to him anymore than he wanted to talk to her. Fortunately, Bae was tired and cranky—refusing to get up, refusing to get dressed, to eat, or to get in the carriage, in that order. It left him with an excuse to ignore her.  He left Belle to deal with the boy while he went and saw the horses (not that they were really horses) brought out and harnessed up.

Rumplestiltskin was tempted to transport them all back to the castle before they drove away from the inn, but he kept a rein on his temper. He'd had some vague thoughts on how to bring Bae back to the village, to eventually set things up so that the villagers would believe he lived only a short distance away (which he did, Rumplestiltskin just didn't want them knowing which Dark Castle Bae called home) and might accept seeing him every few days (with a snake-eyed servant quietly watching over him).

That plan, rough as it was, depended on Belle. She would have to play the role of rich widow living in seclusion, discouraging visitors without arousing suspicions—and, Rumplestiltskin supposed, receiving enough visitors to make the villagers believe there was some place to visit. He could have created the illusion of a grand house somewhere nearby, somewhere with a very difficult road frequently cutoff by bad weather. He'd still been working out the details. Obviously, Bae couldn't be allowed out of the castle's protection without his father close by.

It still would have meant trusting Belle, relying on her to play her part to the villagers, to show Rumplestiltskin some trust in return as they guarded Bae. And, of course, to know Belle wouldn't do something stupid as soon as she was out of the castle like grab Bae and run—whether to the Marchlands or the nearest sea port, Rumplestiltskin didn't know or care. He wouldn't let either happen.

Belle had likely ruined that plan, but the Dark One never gave up without a fight. So, he waited till they were out of sight of the village before snapping his fingers and bringing them the rest of the way. His castle wasn't that far from the village, but it was much higher up in the mountains, where storms hit hard and suddenly. The sky over the inn had only been a little overcast with a bit of a chill in the air. Here, it was snowing in earnest. Rumplestiltskin, from the feel of the wind, expected this would turn into a fierce blizzard soon enough.

He helped Bae out of the carriage. Belle shrank back, repulsed, when he tried to offer her a hand, so he turned his back on her. Bae, his eyes lit up with delight as he watched the falling snow, morning peevishness forgotten, didn't notice.

"Haven't you seen snow before?" Rumplestiltskin asked, amused.

"We had some last winter," Bae said. "We built snowmen and threw snowballs. It lasted a  _week._ "

Rumplestiltskin laughed. "It will last here for much longer. And this will turn into a blizzard soon enough. Don't try to go out. Not that the castle doors won't let you go anywhere dangerous, and this storm will turn  _very_  dangerous."

"Aww. . . ."

"We can build a snowman after it's stopped," Rumplestiltskin said.

Snowmen. He could remember building those. Usually, when he thought back on the days when he could still feel cold—truly feel it—he remembered fierce winters and the ache in his stomach as food ran low. The one blessing of the cold winters in the Frontlands was that they had stopped the Ogres. Once the snow closed the passes in the hills, they were sealed off and safe till the spring thaw (safe from the Ogres. Hunger and cold waged their own wars). It was one of the reasons why the Marchlands, even though they were farther from the Ogres' territory than the Frontlands, had fallen faster. There'd been nothing to stop the enemy once they'd broken through. But, now he thought of the kinder side of those harsh winters.  He thought of Morraine laughing over the silly face she’d made for a snowman with rocks and a few sticks and her delight making snow fairies in the newly fallen snow.

Belle got out of the carriage on her own. She was careful to stand on the other side of Bae as they walked back into the castle. Bae, still over his morning crankiness (Rumple knew what small children were like the day after a festival, and didn't doubt Belle would have her hands full soon enough), was giving an excited recitation of everything he'd done yesterday. He showed Rumplestiltskin the small treasures he'd acquired at some of the booths with the pennies Rumplestiltskin had given him to spend.

"I almost forgot!" Bae said. He pulled out a wooden hair comb. A pattern of flowers had burned into the end in a design that looked like Frontlands work (centuries of Rumplestiltskin in the neighborhood had quietly influenced the town). He handed it to Belle. "It's like the one Papa gave you, isn't it?"

Rumplestiltskin stopped mid-stride.

He knew the comb Bae was talking about. Rumplestiltskin had met Belle at the fair in Longbourne. He'd already sold all his cloth at a good profit and had been looking through the booths and stalls with coins to spend. A friend had told him about a limner's apprentice, Milah, who was supposed to be good at sketching faces. They had decided to meet up with some others to see her work, though Rumplestiltskin didn't think he'd be talked into paying her to make a sketch of him. It wasn't as if he was a handsome man.

Instead, he'd bumped into Belle—quite literally. She'd had to jump out of the way of a gang of small boys, two or three years older than Bae was now, running to see the puppet show that was just starting. She'd been jostled against a booth and the wheel of a wagon before pulling free and falling, more or less, into Rumplestiltskin's arms. Curses were thrown after the boys by other market-goers, and the children found themselves rounded up with demands to know who their parents were.

Rumplestiltskin had ignored the ruckus, his gaze caught by the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. Then, he'd noticed the tear in Belle's skirt.  A weaver and spinner by trade, he always had a needle and thread in his satchel. He'd offered to help mend it. They'd been near the dancing square on the green. Somehow, he never did meet up with his friends that evening.

Belle's braid had come loose during the dancing. Embarrassed, she'd left the dancing square to try and fix it. Rumplestiltskin had spotted the woodcarver's booth nearby. His eyes lit on the comb. It was lying to the side, small and neglected. The flowers were carved at the end of it and painted blue, the same shade as Belle's eyes. Impulsively, he found himself buying it and offering it to Belle.

It was forward of him. They'd barely met, after all, and the Frontlands had strict rules on propriety (or they had before the chaos of the war swept them away). He'd flushed and become tongue-tied as he realized what he was doing. But, Belle had smiled (in his memory—if he could trust any of his memories of Belle at all—that smile had reached her eyes and warmed them). Perhaps, it would be all right, if her mother said so. She had led him over to the wagon where Elise was talking to a man Rumplestiltskin had taken for Belle's father—or grandfather (he wasn't. Belle called him Uncle Claude, but he was actually some kind of servant to Elise. Later, when Rumplestiltskin learned all of Elise's story, he found Claude was a man-at-arms who had served Elise's family and helped her when she ran away from Maurice's court). Elise had studied the comb as intently as if she expected to find poison hidden in it. Giving Rumplestiltskin a look that made him feel like he was one of the boys who had caused all the ruckus running for the puppet show, she informed Belle in arctic tones that she could keep the comb—if they made a fair trade. Would Goodman Rumplestiltskin care to join them for dinner in return for this gift?

Rumplestiltskin decided he had gone from troublemaking boy to grubby dog, the kind that found mouldering meat and dragged it into the house to eat. But, he had also been invited to eat with Belle's family. He smiled and accepted.

When he returned from the war, the comb had been lying on the floor near their bed, tossed aside. In the dark cottage, Rumplestiltskin hadn't seen it till was going to bed himself that night. He had stepped on it by accident, the teeth of the comb biting into the heel of the foot of his bad leg, before breaking under his weight. Rumplestiltskin, picking up the shattered pieces and remembering what Hordor had told him, imagined how the gift he'd given his wife had come to thrown away so carelessly, lying in the shadow of their bed.

He still had the pieces of it, kept in a box in the same room where he had Morraine's doll and other treasures.

There was pain in Belle's eyes as she took the comb from Bae and smiled. "You're right, Bae. It's just like it."

Bae looked very pleased with himself and continued talking about the festival.

Rumplestiltskin watched them, trying to understand what had just happened. She'd told Bae about the comb? Told Bae how  _he_  had given it to her, not some pirate or lord?

And Bae knew this story well enough that he bought his mother a comb—was  _proud_  of himself for buying her a comb—that reminded her of the one that she'd tossed aside with the rest of their marriage.

They reached Bae's rooms. "Stay with the boy," he said roughly. "I have a great deal to do today. There will be a visitor later," he added, almost as an afterthought. "He'll arrive in the midafternoon. Be there to greet him in the entryway and lead him to the great hall. And don't forget to fetch us some tea. He'll doubtless be cold on a day like this. Take your luncheo here or in the kitchen, but don't interrupt us." He was in no mood to share meals with them today—and it was time he started thinking of Belle as a servant again. And treating her as one. He needed to keep a safe, formal distance between them. So, she'd told Bae some fairy tale about the comb. It meant nothing. Trying to tell himself it did would just lead him into another snare, like the one he'd stepped into yesterday.

Stepped into? No, he'd  _charged_  into that, like a blind bull bit by a swarm of hornets.

Why? He wondered, stalking back to the great hall. What was he that, no matter what form he took, no matter what century he met her in, Belle turned from him in disgust?

He was ugly. He knew he was ugly. He had cast spells to make sure he was ugly—uglier even than he'd been before the curse. Disguising himself as a man for All Souls, he had chosen a bland face, not a handsome one. Why create a lie so obviously false?

But, Belle had enjoyed his company. More than that, he would have sworn she'd felt  _safe_  with him—in a way she hadn't around the many strangers at the festival. He closed his eyes, remembering their walk back to the inn, Bae falling asleep in his arms and Belle taking the little boy from him, getting his snoring to stop.

For a moment, it had been as if all the bitter centuries between them had vanished, as if they were the simple husband and wife they might have been if the Ogre Wars and his cowardice had never happened, walking home to their cottage after spending All Souls among friends and neighbors, dancing on the green. Belle had laughed at a joke he'd made. Together, they'd tucked their son into bed. As she leaned forward, he caught the scent of her hair, all autumn leaves and wood smoke from her day outside.

He'd imagined moments like this as he lay in the healers tent, determined to live, telling himself he would get home and find Belle—find her  _alive—_ alive and well and with their son. For a moment, all the anger, all the pain, had fallen away. He wasn't the Dark One, anymore. He was nothing but a simple spinner standing by the woman he loved, the woman whose smiles and kind touch he had ached for when he told himself he had to live.

Rumplestiltskin had taken her hand and looked in her eyes. He'd seen her look up at him, startled, uncertain, as if seeing him for the first time. His fingers brushed her face, the way they used to. The words were already bubbling up in his mouth,  _Belle, it's me._

His wits deserted him whenever he was with her, he thought bitterly. The Dark One, master of deceit and guile. More like the blathering master of drooling and idiocy. The only reason he had stopped in time was because Belle had had enough of him.

He saw the change in her eyes, saw the  _disgust_  as she pushed him away.

She despised him. She  _always_  despised him, whether it was this century or another. Belle couldn't even muster up a false smile, like the ones he'd seen her give Gaston, the ones that never reached her eyes. He wasn't even worth the trouble of lying to. Furious with her, with himself, he took her old lover's form.

She was shocked. Of course, she was shocked. People were  _always_  shocked the first time they realized how forms could lie. Anyone but a fool would have realized that and given her time to recover.

Instead, seeing her recoil, he'd become even angrier, taking the form of the man she'd left him for.

She  _had_  recovered, Rumplestiltskin thought. Shock gave way to revulsion. He might as well have been an Ogre, complete with bits of corpse stuck between his teeth. She knew it was just a lying trick. He'd seen how she'd been sickened at the sight of him.

He sat at his wheel, spinning and trying to order his thoughts, to calm them, trying not to ask why Belle loathed him—even when she didn't know it was him.

And he tried not to think about the comb Bae had given her or why, despite the pain he’d clearly seen, her smile had reached her eyes when she had taken it.

X

Bae was cranky. Yesterday had been too exciting and he had stayed up too late then been up too early. Belle finally got him to lie down after lunch— _not_  to take a nap. Bae had informed her (quite peevishly) that he was  _too big_  for naps. However, after much persuasion, Belle convinced him to lie down while she read him a story. Despite his insistence that it wasn't a nap, Bae made sure to have his worn blanket. He also held onto a small top he had bought at the festival. It was a cleverly made toy, rounded instead of pointed. If spun just right, it flipped over as it went around and twirled on the little knob. At least for today, he seemed to think it was more wonderful than any of the toys the Dark One had given him.

Belle rubbed her head. There had been times Jones had given her gifts, and it was always important she be suitably grateful. She remembered the time he'd been angry because she'd been "too grateful" to the cabin boy who'd bought needles and thread for her when he was in port—more grateful, he'd decided, than she was for the new dress he'd given her. Gaston could be a little like that, too, easily put out if she didn't make a fuss over his presents. Though, he'd never turned cruel, and she could usually cheer him out of the mood.

Was the Dark One like that? Would he be angry when he found Bae making a fuss over such a tiny, inexpensive toy? Would he sulk, the way Gaston had—or turn violent, like Jones? Not that he ever called it violence. . . .

_If you're too good for the officers, you can bed down with the crew._

_To survive at sea, a ship needs discipline. It's the captain who doesn’t give punishments who is the cruel man, sacrificing discipline and the good of the ship, not the one who keeps the rules. . . ._

Lord Maurice had agreed. Gaston had nodded wisely.

The Dark One might not call it violence either when he punished Bae.

Or when he punished her.

Belle's stomach should be in knots, but she only felt numb, emptied. She tried to act as if everything were normal in front of Bae. He noticed something was wrong but seemed to believe her when she told him she was only a little tired. It was true. She hadn't slept at all last night except, near morning, when she'd nodded off for a few minutes only to wake up, heart pounding from nightmares.

Nightmares. Memories.

She'd turned down Hordor, and he'd had her whipped and sold to the highest bidder. She'd tried to turn down Jones, and he'd nodded calmly and thrown her into the arms of the crew.

To think, she'd tried to fight Smee when he took Bae from her. She'd still been weak and feverish from her whipping, but two men had had to hold her while Smee forced her son out of her arms. He'd been apologizing all the while, telling her she'd thank him later.

He'd known.

When she first saw him, he'd been bringing a small nanny goat onboard. It was just as Hordor's men were bringing her to the ship. She remembered Smee leading it up the gangway as Jones signed off on some papers, accepting delivery. Smee had known how things would go, what Jones would do. But, Smee made sure there would be milk for Bae while she was learning her first lesson about obeying Jones' commands. She owed him for that.

Once she'd learned it, Jones, reminding her he was a gentleman, had made the crew troop by her, dropping the coins in front of her he said they should have paid.

She'd sat there, unable to feel or understand. It was like staring at writing in a dream. She could see it, know it had meaning, know she should _understand that_  meaning—but unable to grasp it.

Except for a part of her. Belle could feel it in the back of her mind, already understanding and screaming inside her, wanting to run, to escape, to jump over the side of the ship and drown, wanting to seize a weapon and kill them all—or let them kill her.

It must have shown in her eyes. Or maybe it was only that Smee had seen it all before. She remembered when the crew was done, staring at the coins, something building up in her. She was ready to throw them all into the sea and maybe go in after. He came up last, holding Bae.

He was the only crewman who hadn't taken advantage of what the captain offered. Belle never knew if it was compassion or pragmatism. "Keep it," he said, nodding at the coins as he put Bae into her arms. "You think the captain will buy the things your son needs? You'll need it."

Smee made the purchases for her when they were in port, since Jones almost never let her off the ship—and never without crewmen watching over her. When she ran out of coins, Smee found other ways for her to pay him back. She was able to read Jones letters and the orders he received, passing on secrets to Smee. He might have been a spy. Or he might have been a very practical man who knew how to take advantage of anything that came his way. She never knew which and found it very hard to care.

Belle tried to push the memories away, concentrating on the words in the book.  Bae fell asleep as she read to him.

There was a knock at the door. Belle opened it and found the Dark One. She'd thought she was numb, but she shrank back, wondering if this was where her punishment would begin. But, he only looked her over disparagingly. "Make yourself presentable," he told her. "My guest will be here soon. I'd like him to get the wrong impression of you."

Belle ignored the jibe, nodding. "Of course, my lord. Is there anything else? Anything I should know about your guest?"

The Dark One shrugged. "He's nothing important, the sheriff of a town called Nottingham. But, he has information I want."

Belle blinked. Nottingham was a major center of trade. The town probably saw more money in a season than all the Marchlands in a year. Its sheriff had more power than some lords.

Or he had three hundred years ago. Perhaps that had changed as well.

Three hundred years. . . .

"How did you know?" she blurted out.

The Dark One turned and fixed a harsh stare on her. "Know what?"

"Jones. You—you knew what he looked like. How? Or was it just a trick?" Could he take the image out of her mind? Or make her see something only she remembered?

He grinned, making a point of showing his fangs. "Oh, no trick, dearie. I'm much older than I seem, didn't you know?”  His smile widened.  "You may remember an amulet your captain had? I expect he never took it off."

Belle shivered, memories of metal digging into her skin. She nodded.

The Dark One said, "It was made with the voice and heart of a certain mermaid—"

"The what?" She had to have heard that wrong. The Dark One looked at her witheringly. Belle dropped her eyes, as became a proper servant. "I'm sorry, my lord. I just don't understand."

"Oh, don't you, dearie? It's not that complicated. With magic, I could take out any part of you I pleased. I could hold your heart in my hand and let you scream every time I gave it a squeeze. I could take those pretty eyes of yours and dangle them on a chain. Your captain convinced a little mermaid to hand her heart and voice over to him—incredibly stupid of her, but I understand he could be quite charming when he put his mind to it. I expect you would know more about that than I would."

"Yes," Belle whispered. "He could be charming. When he tried." He was charming when he spoke in Maurice's court, apologizing for his treatment of Belle (but, really, how was he to know? It was an innocent mistake). He'd been charming when a judge in one port town had asked pointed questions about a dueling death (the man he'd killed was over sixty years old and had tried to take back his granddaughter when some of the crewmen lured her aboard. Jones had killed him before he picked up the sword the captain threw at his feet. But, the judge agreed, it was an honorable duel. And the girl had only gotten what she'd asked for. Even if she was only fifteen).

The Dark One went on with his tale. "The Sea Witch, Ursula, took exception. I think the mermaid in question was her niece or some such. Unfortunately, the amulet Jones made once he was done with the girl protected him from most perils of the sea, including the Sea Witch. So, she approached me. She didn't know his name or the name of his ship. It seemed everything he told his mermaid victim was a lie. They had a nickname for him: Hook. Because he was like a baited hook, offering sweet things before dragging his prey out of the sea.

"But, Ursula was able to set me on the trail of a man who had once served under Jones, Smee. Smee was . . . remarkably reasonable once he knew what he was dealing with." Smee. Yes. He would be. She'd heard he'd left Jones' ship after she was gone. Jones had been quite angry to lose her, no matter what he'd told Maurice—and Smee was the one who'd delivered the ring and her message begging for help. "From there, it was a simple matter to track down the soldier turned pirate.

"I got his amulet from him, replacing it with one that was . . . less effective, shall we say. He never noticed. Till the mermaids sank his boat. The sailors, I believe, were eaten by sharks—the mermaids brought several with them—but Jones they took alive. And kept alive for much longer than I would have expected, all things considered. But, I won't trouble you with the gruesome details. I believe you said revenge was  _impious._ "

"He's—he's dead?" Belle said. She felt as if she was back on Jones ship, coins being given to her. She didn't understand what was happening or what it meant.

"Oh, quite dead. And probably wanted to be long before it actually happened, poor lad."

He was saying this to wound her, she realized. He thought—he must think she'd loved Jones. Or cared for him. Enough that hearing how he'd abused the sea girl and how her people had taken their revenge, all this should shock her,  _hurt_  her. But, she couldn't even pretend. "He's  _dead?_  He—all of them—they're all  _dead?_ "

There was a gloating look in his eyes. "I believe that's what I said, dearie. Oh, no, I take it back.  They left one alive to tell the tale, a cabin boy I think it was.  So people would know what happened to the Sea Witch’s enemies. Now, if there's nothing else? I have work to do."

"I—no—thank you—I—thank you. For telling me. I'll—I'll get things ready. For your guest."

Belle went to the kitchen, putting together a plate of scones and fruit tarts. She filled a kettle up with water, ready to heat once the sheriff was here.

He was dead. Gruesomely dead.  _Horribly_  dead.

Belle had been horrified at the joy she felt when she knew Jones had been publically humiliated, that he had turned pirate and renegade. This was worse. Better. Both.

He was dead and never coming back. He was gone. Forever.

Belle hoped the mermaids had fed him to sharks by inches. She hoped he had screamed every day—every moment before he died.

No—no—she wasn't like this. She wasn't like Jones, to take so much happiness in another person's suffering.

Except she did. She felt something bubbling up inside of her as she imagined Jones' terrible end and the deaths of all his crew—falling into the sea, terrified, drowning, being eaten alive. Like that poor girl, just fifteen, when the crewmen were done with her and she learned what had happened to her grandfather. She'd thrown herself into the waves. And Belle had envied her, aching to do the same.

Instead, she'd held Bae tight against her, reminding herself why she couldn't follow.

The bubbling reached her mouth. It felt like laughter but sounded more like a sob as it broke out of her. Tears were running down her face.

 _He's dead,_  she told herself again.  _Dead. No matter what the Dark One does to me, I never have to be afraid of Jones again._

When the sobs subsided, she went and washed her face with cold water to erase the signs of crying. The Dark One had told her to be presentable when met his guest. Belle knew better than to disobey. The water was ice cold. She could hear the storm raging outside, the blizzard the Dark One had predicted. There. So long as the sheriff didn't freeze to death on his way here or get blown off the mountain, she was ready to meet him.

Belle smoothed her hair and tidied her dress. Then, she went to the entry room to await the Dark One's guest.

She didn't see the Dark One, his face troubled as he stepped out of the shadows where he had watched her as she wept over the captain's death.


	9. Cold Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple, Belle, and Bae return to the castle before a blizzard hits. New troubles arise over one of Rumple's deals.

Rumple took out his crystal sphere and watched to see how Belle handled things in the entryway. At the appointed time, mauve smoke began to billow up by the door. So, the sheriff had used the charm Rumplestiltskin had sent him to bring him here rather than back out at the last minute. Backing out—or running away—was a common move from people dealing with him, especially ones he'd given a choice.

Belle, after a moment's surprise, quickly assumed a poised, confident stance. She looked much more like the woman he remembered from Maurice's court, every inch a queen.

When the smoke cleared, the sheriff was there. He was a tall, black haired man. A little like Lord Gaston, Rumplestiltskin thought, frowning.

The man was formally dressed, right down to his gold chain of office, the same as he would have been to meet a great lord or king. Good. He was at least showing proper respect. That boded well. Although (Rumplestiltskin thought with a wicked grin) fools could be much more entertaining to deal with.

The man's eyes scanned up and down Belle, awed rather than lascivious. He gave her a very proper bow, a guest meeting the lady of the castle. Belle gave him a very elegant curtsy in return. It was also all propriety, a curtsy of a woman receiving a guest who was just slightly above her in rank. But, her regal calm suggested the opposite, that she was far, far above him.

The sheriff caught that subtlety as well. He frowned, a troubled taxonomist unable to place the creature in front of him. Belle turned and led him from the room.

X

After her surprise, Belle felt a touch of relief as the mauve clouds formed, glad the Dark One wasn't making some poor mortal fight his way through the storm outside. The winds outside howled like lost souls and seemed especially loud in this room.

She also knew the Dark One was playing petty games. He must have expected her to be startled when this happened. For all she knew, he was watching her this moment, waiting for her to make a fool of herself.

Well, Belle had dealt with her share of people in Maurice's court (and elsewhere) who smiled sweetly while waiting for a chance to stab her in the back. She fell back on what she'd learned, forcing herself into calmness. Act the great lady, and people often found it hard to remember you weren't.

And, if they got through your defenses and drew blood,  _never_  let them know you bled.

It still took all her hard-learned discipline to keep calm when she saw the man who appeared. He was too much like Gaston and Jones, tall and dark haired with a proud look that boded ill for anyone who offended.

 _You are a lady here,_ Belle reminded herself.  _Or close enough._  She was housekeeper, head of staff (all one of her), chatelaine, and whatever else the Dark One decided she should be today. She didn't have to cringe before an interloper, no matter who he reminded her of.

Greetings were exchanged. Belle swept him a graceful curtsy before turning grandly to lead him to the great hall. She had let him know she was a servant, but she tried to imply otherwise in her manner. After all, what might the Dark One have as a servant? For all the man knew, the howling outside was a legion of demons the Dark One kept to clean the scullery who had been let out to play.

Still, she hoped the Dark One  _was_  watching. It made her skin crawl to turn her back on this man. But, would the Dark One care? For all she knew, this man with his handsome, nightmare face was part of whatever punishment he had planned for her.

Never mind. She wouldn't run. She wouldn't scream. She would remain calm as befit a great lady.

She swept down the long corridors, listening to the sheriff's footsteps, glad that he seemed content to just stay out of reach behind her.

X

Rumplestiltskin waved at the crystal, making it vanish back into the cabinet, and leaned back in his chair just before Belle swept in with the sheriff. She gave Rumplestiltskin a much deeper and _much_ more sincere curtsy than she had their guest—and made sure the guest saw it. He had to admire her. She'd learned a few tricks about playing politics. "My lord," she said. "May I present the Sheriff of Nottingham, Guy of Gisborne." Looking back at Gisborne, she said, "My lord sheriff, may I present the Dark One." Then, she stood aside to let Rumplestiltskin take over.

Rumplestiltskin grinned, just to see how the sheriff would respond to the brown fangs, but the man wasn't like his predecessor, a drunkard, Allen of Voysey. He gave no sign that there was any difference between a mad, fanged imp and the most sober lord holding court in his castle. The sheriff bowed as deeply and properly as he would to a king. "My lord, I am honored to meet you," Gisborne said.

"Indeed, you are," Rumplestiltskin agreed, giving a mad giggle. "Madam, fetch some tea for our guest."

"My lord," Belle murmured, curtsying again before leaving. Rumplestiltskin couldn't help smiling approvingly. He didn't understand her and her moods, but she knew how to play a part when it was required of her.

"What is she?" the sheriff breathed, awed.

"Hmm?"

"Fairy? Siren? Goddess? I'd heard tales of such beings but never seen one. . . ."

Rumplestiltskin looked sharply at the sheriff. Was he drunk after all? Belle was pretty enough when all was said and done, but 'goddess' was going too far.

"She's my maid," Rumplestiltskin said, wanting to end wherever the sheriff was going with this. "And only human." Obviously, being in a magic castle was going to the man's head. He was seeing wonders everywhere. It wasn't even one of Belle's good days. She looked too pale, now he thought about it, and her eyes were shadowed. She must have slept poorly last night. Far from a goddess.

Although, Rumplestiltskin wasn't beyond calling her a siren, the magic beings who took the form of those you loved—but only so they could hurt you when you let down your guard.

Rumplestiltskin shoved the thought aside. It was a pity he didn't tolerate vermin. The sheriff sounded far enough lost he would swoon at a mousehole, so long as it was in the Dark Castle, and call it Ali Baba's cave.

The sheriff was still staring at the door Belle had left through. "Only human? Truly?" A thought seemed to occur to him. "I heard a rumor, a tale that you made a deal with the lord of the lost Marchlands. You delivered his land from a curse and put them under your protection in return for the most beautiful woman in all the kingdom, a courtesan who had been the lord's own mistress, a woman who'd traveled the world and left a road of broken hearts behind her in another time. Was that  _her?_ "

After a flash of irritation, Rumplestiltskin decided to be amused. He knew how stories tended to change and grow, but this was a bit much.

It was also, he decided, a better tale than the ones that were likely to be told about the Dark One stealing a little boy. Not that there weren't plenty of those in the world already. Half the children in the realm were warned to go to bed on time or the Dark One would get them. He toyed with whether to squash this story or encourage it.

Neither, he decided. "I got her in Lord Maurice's court," he said. "She makes an excellent cup of tea." The sheriff could decide if he wasn't discussing why he'd acquired her or if (inhuman monster that he was) all he cared about was her cooking skills. He changed the subject, getting back to the reason he'd summoned the sheriff in the first place. Belle returned with the tea while they were negotiating. Eyes properly downcast, she prepared Rumplestiltskin’s first and handed it to him.

"I'm willing to give a reasonable payment," Rumplestiltskin told Gisborne. It was always interesting when he was making a deal without knowing what it was the other person would ask for. Gold was often enough. Other times, they wanted magic. Curse an enemy, save a friend, youth, beauty—the list was endless.

"Magic, I understand, often costs more than it's worth," Gisborne said.

Rumplestiltskin giggled. "All magic comes with a price, dearie, though plenty of people want to pay it."

The sheriff, however, was looking at Belle as she poured his cup. "My lord?" Belle asked. "How do you like your tea?"

The awed look was back in the sheriff's eyes. He didn't see Belle, Rumplestiltskin realized. He saw a tale, a legend. The courtesan whose favors bought the salvation of an entire kingdom, the beauty the Dark One himself would pay for in lives and souls. She could look like a toad on a log and, with that story behind her, all Gisborne would see was his goddess.

"Her," Gisborne said. "That's my price. Let me have her."

X

Belle tried not to let her hands shake as she poured tea, adding honey and lemon. The Dark One and the sheriff were negotiating a price. In words, it was no different than a dozen other deals she'd heard the bits and pieces of. But, she could feel the sheriff's eyes on her.

Her stomach twisted and she felt bile in her throat. She wasn't surprised when the sheriff made his demand.

"Her. That's my price. Let me have her."

_If you're too good for the officers, you can bed down with the crew._

She looked up at the Dark One, wanting to scream, to beg. But, his eyes were on the sheriff.

"Just for a night," the sheriff said. "An  _hour_. That's what I want. Only that."

"Only . . . that?" the Dark One repeated the sheriff's words, his voice perfectly, uncharacteristically mild. There was a trap in those words, Belle thought.

Of course there was. And she could feel it closing around her.

"Madam," the Dark One said, still in that odd, calm voice. "Go. We'll finish this without you."

"My lord, I—"  _Don't. I'll do what you ask. Whatever—_ whatever _it is. Don't—_

But, she couldn't say the words. They lay in her stomach in frozen lumps.

" _Go!_ " he snarled.

Belle turned and ran.

The doors slammed shut on their own behind her. She stood in the passageway, trembling.

This was his revenge. This was her punishment.

Memories. A ship's hold crowded with men, drawing straws for their turns. Jones laughing when he made her scream. His warnings when his brother came aboard.

_Do what he wants, Belle. Or I might decide that brat of yours is making you squeamish. Give a whore a bastard, and she turns into a prude. Don't make me punish you after. Or maybe that brat is the one I should punish. He's the one doing this to you._

_He won't do that,_ Belle told herself. She didn't understand the Dark One and his talk of fate, but he cared for Bae. She thought—she believed—he cared for her son.

She'd been wrong about him before. Yesterday had proved that.

She couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in on her, like the hold of Jones’ ship.  She had to get out, get air.

Belle saw the door to the battlements. Without stopping to debate, she ran to it and threw it open, rushing outside.

The cold air slammed into her, clearing her mind. Despite the snow and wind, her shaking eased.

Back in the great hall, the Dark One was negotiating his price for her.

 _Jones is dead,_ she thought.  _He's dead._

_I thought I was free._

She moved away from the door. The shivering was coming back. It was too cold out here. She had to go in before she froze.

But. . . .

But, going back in meant facing the Dark One and whatever deal he'd made. It meant—it meant—

She remembered him bandaging her hands, healing them. She'd trusted him, then. Or something that felt like trust.

He wouldn’t have her take the sheriff to Bae’s room. Would he? There were plenty of other rooms in the castle. Or dungeons.  That would be a fitting place for this.

Would he give her a charm, like the one he'd given the sheriff, send her to the man's home, then expect her to return when she was done?

Would he come and fetch her if she didn't?

Or would that be another victory, getting rid of her at last?

The wind howled around her. Like the dead. Maybe Jones and his crew were out there, mocking her. For all she knew, maybe the Dark One summoned their wraiths to see this little farce play out to its end.

The cold bit into her. Belle tried to keep moving, pacing the battlements. It had been snowing for hours, but the wind was blowing it free of the stones. It was only at the edge of the parapets where the wind couldn't reach it that it lay in piles.

She should have brought her shawl. No, she should go back in. Belle remembered stories the sailors had told of men falling into the water in the northern seas, how quickly they could freeze and die. How long had she been out here?

The icy sting was beginning to fade. She couldn't go back, not yet. Just a little longer, she told herself. To catch her breath, to control her fear, to feel numb inside.

She walked further. She wasn't sure for how long—or how far. There were dangerous places out here, stairs and odd turns. Harmless enough normally, but it was hard to see. The snow around her was so thick, she wondered if the old saying was true. Maybe she wouldn't be able to see her hand in front of her eyes. She paced some more. She should test it, Belle thought. But, lifting her hand seemed too much effort.

Where was she? How far had she come? This was foolishness. She needed to go back in before—before—

Her thoughts felt heavy as lead. Doors. There were doors all along the walkways, weren't there? She needed to find one. She needed to go inside and face what had to be faced.

She could do this. She'd done it before. The cold was numbing her. That was what she needed. To be numb and cold, inside and out.

Belle turned towards the side of the castle. Or what she thought was the side. She ran into stone, but it was the parapets.

Turn around. Go back.

Except the wind pushed and prodded at her (the dead voices howling). The snow blinded her. She thought she was heading back across, towards the castle. Why wasn't she finding it?

The answer felt as if it should be obvious, but her leaden mind had trouble finding the answer. Going the wrong way. She must be going the wrong way.

Belle turned again and took a few steps. Then, her foot met nothing but air.

The stairs. She'd found the stairs.

She stumbled, tried to find her footing as she fell into air, tumbling down the stairs along the battlements, landing in a small heap at the bottom.

It was a little sheltered from the wind, here. The snow had been given the chance to accumulate, breaking her fall.

It was so soft. She knew it should be cold, but she only felt the softness. Weariness weighed down on her like stones.

 _Get up,_ she thought.  _Get out of here. You can't stay here. It's dangerous._

She tried to remember why it was dangerous. She tried to remember why it was wrong to lay here and rest.

 _Get up,_ she told herself again.

 _I will,_ she answered back.  _In a moment. . . ._

_A moment._

With that promise, Belle's eyes slid closed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make the sheriff Keith from the episode Lacey, but he was too comic for this scene. I haven't seen much of the BBC's Robin Hood, but I am picturing Richard Armitage, who played Guy of Gisborne, as Keith's replacement. In that same series, the sheriff was played by Keith Allen, so Allen is mentioned as Gisborne's predecessor.


	10. The Cold, Hard Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bae goes looking for Belle. Rumple learns some truths too late.

_Belle thought she knew what exhaustion was, what it was to be pushed and driven till she collapsed, feeling like nothing more than a damp rag. Now, being dragged somewhere back to a point between sleep and waking, she thought she knew what it meant to dissolve, to be completely drained, and still find herself forced to come back and face the world. She was so tired. It hurt._

_Everything hurt._

_She was lying on her side. Dimly, she remembered falling. She remembered panic and fear and falling._

_Being awake—being alive—meant facing all that again._

_She whimpered, her hand clutching her locket_.  _Rumplestiltskin, help me. I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. Help me._

_Hands, warm and soft, gentle as snowflakes, touched the back of her neck and shoulders._

_"Belle?" a familiar voice said softly, as if afraid of waking her up. "Sweetheart, it's all right."_

_Dreams. She had dreams like this, that her husband was still with her, that she was safe at home with him and Bae, and everything else was just a bad dream. She let go of her locket, reaching out for his hand._

_Part of her expected to find this was a nightmare, to wake and realize she was holding the Dark One's clawed hand or the sheriff's—or worse, that the Dark One and his castle, and even Gaston and Lord Maurice's court were nothing but a dream and it was Jones lying beside her, Jones she was reaching out for._

_But, the hand that closed so comfortingly around hers was familiar to her touch. It was small for a man’s, long fingered with the calluses of a spinner and weaver, yet still soft from handling the lanolin in the wool. Even his nails, she thought, running a finger over the tips of his fingers, cut short and kept free of rough edges that would catch on his thread instead of the Dark One's talons. It was him._

_"Rumplestiltskin. . . ?"_

_"Here, sweetheart."_

_"It hurts." She was crying. She hadn't meant to cry, not when he was here for this small moment (a part of her knew he would be gone—he always was—when she woke, but it was so hard to remember). "It won't stop hurting. I've tried. But, I can't—I_   _can't_ _—" She didn't know what it was she couldn't do. Couldn't keep fighting. Couldn't stand and pretend it didn't hurt. Couldn't smile and be dead inside when one man handed her off to another with orders to do as she was bid._

_"Shh, it's all right. You don't need to. I'm here now." His hands began to gently knead the painful knots in her neck and shoulders, the way he used to when she was worried or afraid._

_It's not real._

_"You're not here," she said. "Not really."_

_"Real enough, sweetheart. Now, rest. You need to rest. I promise I'll watch over you."_

_"I love you," she whispered, feeling herself slipping further back into sleep. "I miss you."_

_She felt something brush against her hair, soft as falling snow.  Had he kissed her? "I miss you, too, sweetheart." His voice was rough. Something in it reminded her of another voice. . . . It slipped away._

_Later,_ _she thought._   _I'll think about it later._

_It was a dream. It was always a dream. But, she was too tired to fight the comfort it gave. Real or not, she let herself believe she was warm and sheltered in the embrace of a man who wanted nothing from her, nothing except to keep her safe—even though she knew these things never happened outside of dreams._

X

Rumplestiltskin was spinning, trying to calm the turbulence inside him.

When Belle had fled, he'd turned his attention to the sheriff. "I lied," he told him. "She is a goddess. And she should be treated like one." He tittered madly as he waved his hand and showed the sheriff his own tongue, lying in his hand, taloned fingers closing over it. "What do you think is a proper punishment for blasphemy?"

They had come to a mutually satisfying deal after that. The sheriff got to leave in one piece (with an understanding of what pieces he would lose if he ever insulted Belle again), and Rumplestiltskin got an enjoyable afternoon. Or an afternoon he should have enjoyed.

He kept seeing Belle's face before he told her to leave.

She'd been white as a ghost, nearly as white as she'd been last night when Rumplestiltskin almost kissed her.

Rumplestiltskin remembered Jones saying how Belle had sold herself in every port they came to—and how she'd enjoyed it. Either the captain had been wrong or two-and-a-half years as Gaston's mistress had changed her. Or there was another answer he wasn't seeing.

Whatever her feelings towards lovers, he knew she'd been upset at Bae's little prayer for revenge at All Souls. Rumplestiltskin could only imagine how she'd have reacted if she saw him tearing out body parts, no matter how painlessly. Even if he put them back where he'd found them. There was nothing to ruin a little bit of well-earned revenge like the person you were avenging having weeping fits or (worse) a case of the vapors over your victim.

He spun the wheel, trying not to see the horror in Belle's eyes at the inn. He was nothing like Gisborne. Only a fool would think otherwise—and Belle was no fool, whatever else she might be. He was imagining things.

He was repeating this to himself again, when Bae burst into the hall, his eyes wide with fear.

"Mama," he said. "I can't find Mama."

Rumplestiltskin's first impulse was to say something sarcastic—he didn't want to hear about Belle right now—but he bit it back. Frightened as he was, Bae wouldn't appreciate it. Besides, Rumplestiltskin had seen Belle with Bae. In her way, he could be as protective—some would say as overprotective (Rumplestiltskin wouldn't)—as he was. He looked at the pile of gold he'd spun. How long since he finished with Gisborne? About as long as it took Belle to finish cleaning the cups and dishes from tea. She should be done by now.

Except, she hadn't come back for the tea tray.

That wasn't like her. But, Rumplestiltskin remembered the fear in her eyes as he'd told her to go and the even greater fear when Gisborne named her as his price. She had reason enough to stay out of the great hall.

"The castle will show you the way, if you ask it," he said.

"I did. The lights led outside. I can't open the door."

"What?" Rumplestiltskin got up. "Show me."

There was a door to the battlements in the passageway just outside the great hall. Rumplestiltskin concentrated, wondering if Bae had somehow misphrased his request. But, the lights stayed unchanged, glowing by the door. "Where's Belle?" he demanded out loud, the words more like a crocodile's rumble than a human voice. Bae flinched at the sound, but the lights still didn't alter.

"Stay here," Rumplestiltskin ordered Bae before running outside.

The door slammed shut behind him before Bae could follow, the castle's defenses in action. The biting wind would be too much for a small child, even for a few minutes, and he'd ordered the castle to protect Bae.

He'd given no such orders for Belle.

There were torches along the side of the castle. Normal ones wouldn't stay lit in this storm and normal eyes wouldn't be able to see them if they did. Fortunately, "normal" had very little to do with the Dark Castle and its master. He followed the line of flames to the stairs leading down the battlements and leapt down them. The lights stopped at the foot of the stairway. Confused, he looked around, searching till he saw the small snowdrift that wasn't a snowdrift.

Rumplestiltskin reached down, brushing the light layer of snow away, revealing an ice pale face beneath.

Belle. It was Belle.

All Rumplestiltskin could think for a moment was to be glad where she fell. There was snow enough here to break her fall but still enough wind to keep her from being buried too deeply. She'd have been able to breathe.

If she was still alive.

Rumplestiltskin scooped Belle up, looking at her with magic as well as normal senses (or his abnormal versions of them). She was cold and her breaths were shallow and barely detectable, even to him. Her heartbeat was slow and growing slower. But, the spark of life was there inside her where he could feel it. Clutching Belle to his chest, he rushed up the stairs back to the door, where it swung out of his way (if a door could be frightened, this one was cowering in terror), letting him in.

"Mama?" Bae cried when he saw what Rumplestiltskin carried. "What happened to Mama?"

 _That's what I'd very much like to know._ "She fell," Rumplestiltskin said. "Quickly, we need to get her to the great hall." He was already striding past Bae, doors flying open before him. Rumplestiltskin raced to the fireplace, making the flames burst into a small inferno to warm the room. "Get me the fleece," he told Bae as the boy caught up with him. "Hurry!"

Bae ran to the table where the golden fleece was displayed while Rumplestiltskin dealt with Belle's clothes. He wasn't sure how long she had lain in the snow, but it was long enough for the snow to first melt against her dress and then turn to ice as her body lost the little heat it had. It was worse than useless now, chilling her as it thawed. He didn't bother with buttons, just reaching into the back of the collar and shredding it apart with his claws. He spat a curse at her boots, bursting them at the seams. A quick glance at her locket simply undid the catch and let it fall away. Metal was the opposite problem from ice. It would absorb heat, even to the point of burning her skin, while the rest of her still froze. He ignored it where it fell, tearing away the rest of her frozen dress and shift.

And stopped.

Rumplestiltskin stared.

Belle's back was covered with scars.

There were layers of them. He reached out his hand and traced one of the oldest, the thin line of a whipping scar. Laying over it were the thicker, more ragged marks of flogging, a forest of them, branching out like a thick web of trees.

He knew scars. It was the one rational thought he could hold onto at that moment. People called on him in desperation and anger—and for revenge. He'd seen more than his share of injuries.

Whippings. Those were favored on land where thin lengths of wood, riders' crops, and larger strips of leather were easily found. Flogging was a seaman's punishment.

Rumplestiltskin ran his fingers across more of the lines, inventorying the marks as he tried to make sense of them. The cat-o-nine-tails left a distinctive pattern, if you knew what to look for. The knotted cords struck together, branching from a common grip. When the officers were being especially vindictive, they had the victim first struck by someone right-handed. Then, the flogger either switched hands or the captain called on a left-handed crewman—a naturally left-handed man hit harder and straighter. That way, the cuts criss-crossed over each other, making it that much more difficult to move without pain or without the wounds reopening.

Rumplestiltskin touched a round, lumpish mark where one of the knots in the cat had struck. That was the cruelest punishment, worse than the two-handed flogging, putting sharp bits of metal or jagged edged debris tied into the cords, the better to rip the flesh.

No. This didn't make sense. What he was seeing didn't make sense. He'd seen the passion in Jones' eyes when he spoke of Belle. His wildcat, he'd called her.

" _Quite a pair of claws on her,"_  Jones had said.  _"Sometimes, it was a fight to get her to pull them in."_

Fight. Claws. _Scars_.

There was layer after layer of marks from beatings. It was hard to count the number of times this had been done to her.

"My lord?"

Rumplestiltskin looked up. Bae was standing by him. He looked frightened and confused. He was clutching the fleece. "My lord? What—what should I do with this?"

It took Rumplestiltskin a moment to understand what he was asking. The fleece. Belle needed the fleece. "Spread it on the floor," he told the boy. "In front of the fire."

Bae did as he was told. Rumplestiltskin put Belle down on the golden wool. The hide had been large when Bae put it down—it came from a good sized ram, after all, one large enough to carry two children on its back—but now it grew to almost the size of a cowhide. Rumplestiltskin folded it around Belle. Then, he gathered her back up in his arms. Bae watched, silent and terrified.

Explanations, Rumplestiltskin thought, his slow brain beginning to move. He knew how to calm a frightened child. Whether rescuing them from Ogres or taking them as payment, he'd done it often enough. Give him answers. Children's fears grew on feeling helpless and not understanding why terrible things were happening. Reduce it to something simple and comprehensible, something they had power over.

Above all, speak in a reassuring voice. Show no fear, no matter what you felt yourself.

"Your mother fell," he told him, not sure if that was the truth. "It must have stunned her. In a storm like this, that's dangerous. It doesn't take long for the cold to get the better of you." Bae nodded mutely, not asking the question that was burning in Rumplestiltskin's brain:  _Why_  had Belle gone outside in a raging blizzard without even a shawl to protect her? Had she stumbled blindly? Or had she given up, laying herself down in the snow?

"Her clothes were soaked with ice. Have you ever been caught in the rain on a cold day?" Bae nodded, still wordless. "It's hard to get warm before your clothes dry, isn't it? And your mama can't wait for that. That's why I had to get rid of her clothes. This fleece is magic. It came from a magic ram who had sunlight woven into him—he could even fly. The fleece can heal and protect, but it's especially good against cold. Here, see? Feel some of the wool."

Bae reached out nervously and brushed his fingers against a little tuft right by the edge of the hide. His eyes widened. "It's warm!"

Good. He was speaking again. Even if the words had been startled out of him. "Yes, and it's putting all that warmth into your mama. I'm using magic to watch what's happening inside her, to see how her heart's beating and make sure nothing else is happening that shouldn't." He moved closer to the fire, still holding Belle. The child, he saw, was still afraid. It was marked on every inch of his face. "She's going to be all right, Bae," he assured him.

As far as her body went, it was true. Rumplestiltskin had to watch her, make sure icy blood didn't move too quickly from frozen limbs and damage her heart or any other organ in her body, make sure hands and feet healed instead of being lost to frostbite. But, her  _body_  was easy to heal.

He needed to give Bae something to do. Rumplestiltskin summoned a bottle from his workroom into his hand. The liquid inside glowed, only a little less bright than molten gold. "Do you know what this is? This is a healing potion pressed from sun-flowers. The real kind. Untwist the stopper, will you? This will help your mama."

He held the bottle out to Bae, keeping his grip on it as the little boy twisted the cap, pulling it off. Rumplestiltskin murmured his approval. Then, he lifted Belle up and pressed the bottle to her lips—they had a blue tinge, and her face was nearly bloodless. He counted the drops. Seven. That was as much as he dared. When he was done, Belle was still white, but her lips had turned a very faint shade of pink and a hint of color worked into her cheeks.

Rumplestiltskin lowered her onto the floor. Concentrating, he summoned pillows from one of the many rooms above. Careful not to loosen the fleece from around Belle, he raised her feet and put the pillows under her legs.

"We want the blood to flow to her head and heart. That's what's best for her now," Rumplestiltskin said. But, he still needed to watch her closely. There were too many things that could go wrong—things he could fix, easily, but only if he saw them happening. Magic had a price, and the price became tangled and confused when he tried to see it in Belle. Safest to keep this simple, to watch and use only small spells as necessary.

He looked at Bae. The boy was almost as pale as his mother. "You did the right thing," he reassured his son. "You knew something was wrong and you came and got me in time. Everything will be all right, thanks to you."

It wasn't all right. Belle had run out onto the battlements in a storm. She had fallen and nearly died. By accident. It  _had_ to be by accident.

Bae nodded jerkily. He looked as bewildered and frightened as he had the night Maurice's guards dragged him from his bed into the ball.

Rumplestiltskin needed something to distract him. He saw the locket lying on the ground and picked it up. "This is your mama's, isn't it?" Rumplestiltskin thought of the many times he'd seen Belle's hand go to it, always when she was frightened or worried (he thought of how many times something he'd said or done made her reach for it). It was her talisman, he thought, though he didn't know why. "Did Lord Gaston give this to her?"

Bae shrugged. What did a six year old boy know or care about his mother's jewelry? Not that Rumplestiltskin needed him to know. It had Gaston's family crest on it. So, had Gaston thought of Belle as family? Or was this more along the lines of a dog's collar, something to tell people who the owner was?

Or had it been to let people know Belle was under his protection? That he would defend her the way Rumplestiltskin never had?

Rumplestiltskin flipped it open. He was expecting a portrait—Gaston trying very hard to look intelligent and dashing—or perhaps a luck charm. Instead, there was a childish sketch. "Did you do this?" he asked.

Bae nodded eagerly. "Mama had a picture of Lord Gaston but she got rid of it after we came her. I drew that for her. It's Papa."

_It's Papa._

"You—you did a very good job." Very faintly, along the edge, Rumplestiltskin could make out a worn spot. The new portrait wasn't the only time the center part of the locket was taken out. Careful not to damage Bae's drawing, Rumplestiltskin removed it.

For a second, his fingers tingled, as if he'd brushed against lightning.

It was only a lock of hair, lank and dull brown. But, it was his.

A lock of hair of the Dark One. There were wizards and witches who would pay blood—their own as well as others—for this.

But, that wasn't why Belle had it. It was the custom in the Frontlands, a common remembrance. Probably every man in the village had cut a lock to give to woman close to him before he left for war. Just as he'd given one to Belle, one she kept by her all these years even if she had to hide it in the locket another man had given her. . . .

No, no, this was wrong. It had to be wrong.

She hated him. She couldn't bear to look at him. Belle had run out into the storm, risking her life, rather than confront him about the deal she thought—she must have thought—he was making with Gisborne.

He should have let her stay, should have let her watch as he taught the sheriff a much needed lesson. But, Belle had been upset just at Bae's prayer for revenge last night. And Rumplestiltskin had been angry with her today. He had driven her out rather than let her see him defending her honor.

 _Her honor_ , the snide, familiar voice echoed in his head. But, it was only a habit. There was no bite in it, not now.

Too many horrible things were coming together in his mind, things he should have seen before, things he  _would_ have seen if he had just let himself.

The sheriff had asked for her as his price; and Rumplestiltskin hadn't turned him down, not where she could hear him.

She had been flogged, a seaman's punishment. And she hadn't even been able to look at him when he wore the form of the seaman he'd thought was her lover.

"Bae," he said, keeping his voice steady. Sounding calm, that was important. Bae was upset enough as it was. "Your mama has scars on her back. Do you know how she got those?"

Bae nodded. "The captain. He was mean." Mean. Bae had prayed to his father for the captain's ship to sink. Rumplestiltskin had been amused, knowing the petition was already answered, thinking it just a child's whim.

"You . . . saw him do this." Despite his best efforts, there was tremor in Rumplestiltskin's voice.

Bae shook his head. "I don't think so. I don't  _remember_  seeing it. Mr. Smee made me stay in the cabin when bad things happened."

Smee. He'd been the ship's purser, the one Ursula had helped him find after the man had left Jones' service and was living on land. Rumplestiltskin had despised him for how quickly he gave up the information on his old captain, but he'd paid him for it all the same and left the man alive and well. If he'd known Smee had spared Bae the sight of his mother being flogged, he'd have given the frightened sailor a kingdom if he'd asked for it.

"If he did this, why did your mama stay with the captain?" A stupid question. Why did any woman stay with a man who beat her? As the Dark One, Rumplestiltskin had seen the ways fear, hopelessness, and something that called those feelings love could twist decisions. For that matter, why had Rumplestiltskin himself stayed in a village where people spat at the sight of him until it was almost too late to try and save Morraine?

"Mama had to stay," Bae said. "The captain bought her."

"He—what?"

"He bought her. Mama was a—a—" Bae's face screwed up with concentration as he tried to get the hard word right. "An in- _den_ -tured servant," Bae said it very carefully, obviously proud of himself for getting it all out.

"Indentured. . . ." Bae might as well have turned into an Ogre and hit him on the head with his club for all the sense his words made.

Except they did. The scars, the layers of them, things Jones himself had said. Rumplestiltskin tried to narrow his thoughts to those, putting away three centuries of things he thought he knew but didn't. Scars, wounds, those were real, solid. They didn't change shape no matter how the world itself was shifting beneath his feet.

The oldest scars were from a whipping— _a_  whipping, only one. Whipping was a landsman's punishment, an old favorite in the Frontlands. Rumplestiltskin has scars of his own, a parting gift before the army had sent him on his way.

Someone being punished for wrongdoing could be whipped along with facing fines. If the fines couldn't be paid, the wrongdoer could be sold off instead. If a crippled servant weren't useless, Rumplestiltskin's judges might have done that to him as well. He'd been glad the small holding he and Belle had was too far away for the officers deciding his fate to care about or go through the trouble of seizing.

Their holding. Belle could have sold off the holding to pay the fines and save herself. Or . . . no. It would be easy enough to tie up a widow's property, especially if she had a young son. The child would be the heir under the law, not her. A village leader could stop a guardian widow from disposing of her son's property if it wasn't in the child's interest. Or if he claimed it wasn't.

Even if it meant the child went with his mother into slavery.

"How did your mother— _why_  was your mother indentured?"

"Hordor was angry," Bae said, as if Rumplestiltskin should understand everything from that, who Hordor was, why he would be angry, why he would take that anger out on Belle.

And Rumplestiltskin did, he understood every word of it.

Except he didn't.

Bae must have seen Rumplestiltskin's confusion. "It was after Papa and all the other men died," he added helpfully.

After Papa died.

"Your father . . . died?" Died. What other word could Bae mean?  _How_ could he think. . . ? "How? How did he die?"

"Ogres," Bae said. He looked surprised Rumplestiltskin wouldn't know this. "In the war. They killed everyone. Mama said it took a year for the news to get to the village. Hordor told everyone."

A year. A widow a year, Rumplestiltskin thought. And Belle had done something to make Hordor angry. A woman who was a widow a year could remarry. Rumplestiltskin remembered the look Hordor had given Morraine, the way he'd fingered her honey-dark hair as he'd said she'd ride with him. Rumplestiltskin could imagine what he'd asked of Belle, and what she'd done to bring out his fury.

But—No, Hordor had known Rumplestiltskin was alive. He had been waiting to tell Rumplestiltskin how Belle had left, how she had abandoned him. . . .

For the first time, Rumplestiltskin saw the oddness of that. The village headman rushing out of his hall, running down the road to tell a crippled nobody—less than nobody, a disgraced coward—his wife had left him.

Rumplestiltskin remembered the neighbors who never met his eyes when Hordor or one of his men mentioned Belle, even the ones who thought nothing of spitting on him in the street or giving him a beating when they were bored turned away in shame when Belle's name was spoken.

He looked back on things he'd never questioned, looking at pieces through his centuries of experience as trickster and dealmaker, questioning what he had always believed.

The pieces didn't fit. The villagers felt shame when they heard Belle's name, but it wasn't the shame of a small village where scandals could be remembered and held against a family for generations. They were never ashamed of  _her._

They were ashamed of themselves.

When they called him coward, when they spat on him and struck him, they were trying to bury the memory of their own cowardice, to convince themselves his was even worse—that  _he_ was the one who deserved to be despised, not them.

Because they'd stood by while Hordor beat an innocent woman and sold her to a passing pirate. Because they'd kept silent for fear of Hordor rather than tell Rumplestiltskin the truth.

But, Jones. The stories he'd told Rumplestiltskin. He'd said Belle had enjoyed—that she'd chosen—that she'd  _begged_  for everything he'd done to her.

The scars on her back. A seaman's punishment.

Slowly, Rumplestiltskin lifted a hand and placed it on the fleece above Belle's stomach. It was a simple spell. So easy, a child could do it (he must never,  _never_  teach Bae this spell, not if it showed him what he expected).

All magic comes with a price. If he was right, if this gave him the answer he expected. . . . He couldn't imagine any price worse than knowing the truth.

"What are you doing?" Bae asked.

"Looking for other injuries," Rumplestiltskin told him truthfully. "Ones I may have missed."

Lines of light traced out over the fleece across Belle's body. Different colors, different patterns meant different wounds. Some he’d known about already. Belle had told him about breaking her arm at age seven, and there was the scar on her knee from a tumble out of an apple tree a year later. Some he had expected. There were marks within her that showed on a woman who'd born a child (Bae's birth, he saw, had been harder than he would have wished for her but not nearly as bad as he had feared in the days when he'd dreamt of coming home and finding Belle dead in childbirth).

There were other scars, healed now—mostly healed—in about the same parts of her body, below her waist, before and behind. Rumplestiltskin ignored the roiling in his stomach as he read the broad outlines of the history written there.

Jones had believed what he'd said, that Belle had enjoyed this. Rumplestiltskin had seen the look in his eyes as he'd gloated. He'd done these abominations to her and said she  _enjoyed it._  He'd let other men do the same to her—in every port, so he'd said—so he'd  _boasted._

Rumplestiltskin thought back on the long, painful death Ursula had given Jones. It hadn't been long enough.

 _I took his shape,_ Rumplestiltskin realized.  _Standing in an inn. By a bed. I took his shape and tried to take her in my arms._ He'd seen her eyes. The fear. The revulsion.

If she had struck him with a knife—with a dagger--it would have been less than he deserved.

And, the next day, he had stood by while another man bargained to force her into his bed. He'd sent her away rather than let her interrupt their negotiations.

She had run out into the snow. The only question was if she'd done it in a panic, to get away from him, or if she'd been hoping to die out there?

"Baelfire," Rumplestiltskin said. "Tell me. Did your mother ever tell you anything about Jones? Did she—"  _Did she say he tortured her,_ raped _her for the fun of it. Did she say he enjoyed selling her to men as depraved as he was?_  "—did she tell you what she thought of him?"

"He was mean," Bae said. "He made Mama cry a lot."

Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes. Jones had suffered, he reminded himself. He'd been surprised the man lived as long as he did.

Rumplestiltskin remembered what he himself had gone through since smashing his leg with the mallet, the months when he hadn't known if he would live or die, the darkness when he'd stood in his empty house and found out what living really cost.

_You did not pay nearly enough._

He didn't know if he was talking to Jones or to himself.


	11. Nightmares and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple watches over Belle as she sleeps

Rumplestiltskin sat by Belle's bedside, waiting.

Belle's bedside. That was a lie. It was the bed he'd given Bae. The trundle bed, one of the many insults he'd given Belle, had been moved into the playroom where Bae was sleeping in it. The boy would have stayed up all night to watch over his mother, if his strength had matched his will. But, he was only six years old. Exhaustion and Rumplestiltskin's soothing voice as he told Bae reassuring stories of people he'd healed had finally left him nodding off. Rumplestiltskin had carried him over to the smaller bed and tucked him in, along with the blanket he always slept with.

Then, Rumplestiltskin went back to his wife.

His wife. He didn't even have the right to think of her as that.

But, there was a difference between rights and debts. He was only beginning to guess how much he owed Belle. Not that it mattered. A man didn't do the things he'd done to his wife. Even a twisted imitation of a

man, like Rumplestiltskin, knew better. Or should have known better.

The worst of Belle's danger was past, enough that he hadn't felt panic or fear (not really) in the few minutes it took to put Bae to bed. Enough that, before Bae was ready to admit how tired he was, Rumplestiltskin had finally found the courage to bring Belle here to rest. Thinking a little more clearly than when he'd raced into the great hall with Belle in his arms, he'd magicked her into a night shift before unwrapping the golden fleece. He'd even pulled up a sheet over her before laying the fleece back on her, as if it were just one more of the many blankets he'd piled on top of it. The thin layers of cloth wouldn't block the magic of the fleece. Much. And he was here to watch for any sign of danger if it did.

After putting Bae down, Rumplestiltskin took a moment to put a small spell on the doorway leading to the playroom. If Bae woke up, Rumplestiltskin would hear any sounds he made, but Bae wouldn't be woken by any noise coming from this side. If Belle woke, he could talk to her without disturbing Bae's rest.

If. When.

Although no one, of course, had come to sit by him while his ruined leg knit back together, he remembered when other soldiers had come to visit their fellows. There was something comforting in hearing human voices, even if none of them were speaking to him. He remembered lying there quietly, pretending he was included in that circle of friendship as they discussed common, everyday things: the weather, army food, their lives before the war, the lives they hoped to live after.

So, he got out a book to read to Belle, hoping the sound of a voice—even if it was his—would be comforting to her. She had been reading  _The Tale of Britomart_ , and he started with that. But, Belle had just gotten to the story of Hellenore.

He'd forgotten this. Or, no, not  _forgotten._ Gods help him, it hadn't seemed important. If anything, it was a slight jab at the life she'd led. That he'd thought she'd led.

Hellenore was the opposite of the heroic Britomart in every way. An unfaithful wife, she abandoned her husband for a chance met lover and, in the end, willfully chose to live with a small colony of lust filled satyrs. As the tale put it, "and every one as common good her handled."

Rumplestiltskin barely resisted the urge to tear the pages out of the book and throw them in the fire. He'd _given_  this to her.  _He_ 'd given it to her, her _husband_ , knowing this was in it, hoping to rub salt in her wounds.

Well, he'd succeeded, hadn't he?

If Belle didn't have such a deep respect for books—and if he didn't think she'd come looking for it later—he would have destroyed it. More than that, he would have been tempted to track down every copy in the land and burn the offending pages in every last one of them.

Instead, he summoned a book of bland, simple children's stories. No surprises or forgotten twists here. Monsters who carried off maidens never meant to do worse than eat them. They were always thwarted by brave heroes or by the maidens themselves. One particularly heroic and intelligent maiden was set to be married off to a rich traveler. Her father liked the man (and his money) although the daughter was deeply disturbed by her bridegroom, not that the idiot father listened to her pleas. Finally, she set out on her own to learn the truth and came back (after harrowing adventures) with gory proof that the man her father had chosen was a robber and a murderer (body parts of victims were produced in evidence). Rumplestiltskin didn't try to hide his relish as the evil, murderous fool who couldn't recognize what a treasure he'd had a chance to spend his life with was hanged. It was better than he deserved.

Maybe he told it with a bit too much relish. Belle began to toss and turn. Quickly, he put the book down and went to her side.

"Rumplestiltskin," Belle murmured in her sleep, one of her hands curled around the locket. "Rumplestiltskin, help me."

The words jolted through him. His name had strange powers—one of the reasons so few people knew it. It could be used to summon him (not that he had to come). Now, he learned that when his wife spoke his name while holding the locket with his hair inside it, he could  _feel_  her pain as she spoke it.

Had the spell around the Marchlands shielded him from this? Or had it been his unwillingness to listen? If he weren't in the same room with her, would he have felt that down to his bones?

He couldn't tell. But, Rumplestiltskin realized he knew— _knew_ —his name was another thing she kept locked inside her, along with every other injury. He felt it was in the quick stab of pain when she named him. Only a terrible day—like today—could drag it out of her.

If she had spoken his name in the castle, no matter how blind and deaf he'd chosen to be, even his power could have blocked that out.

She whimpered again in her sleep, and he started to reach out to her before seeing his claws. Hesitantly, remembering what had happened last time he changed shape for her and hoping this wasn't as great a mistake, he became again the man she once knew. If Belle had opened her eyes, she would have been sure she was dreaming, seeing her husband looking down on her.

"Belle?" he whispered, using his real voice. "Sweetheart, it's all right." Sweetheart. He had no right to call her that, no right at all.

The hand that had held the locket fluttered towards him, her eyes still closed in sleep. Or almost-sleep. He folded his own hand protectively around it, glad he had hidden his claws.

"Rumplestiltskin. . . ?"

"Here, sweetheart."

"It hurts." She was crying. She was dreaming—or close to dreaming—and she still wept "It won't stop hurting," she whispered. "I've tried. But, I can't—I  _can't_ —"

The pain in her voice tore at him without any magical help. He thought of all the ways he could make her suffering go away, each more terrible than the last. Take away the memories that wounded her so deeply, including all the things he'd done to her (and, oh, how he wanted to do that) and he would take away all the things that went with them, her courage and endurance and her deep love for Bae.

He could reach in, he thought. He could take out her heart and all the hurt it was causing her. Just for a little while. Just till she'd had more time to heal, till she was strong enough to endure what her heart was doing to her.

Rumplestiltskin shook his head. He was lying to himself. He knew how hearts healed, and that wasn't it. If he did that, when he gave it back to her, the pain would be as sharp and fresh as before. Nothing cured, nothing changed.

He thought of the last night he had spent with Belle, before he went to war, before everything went wrong. She'd been afraid that night, too, though she tried not to show it. He remembered how she hunched, ever so slightly, when she was worried, her shoulders tensing. He'd reached out that night as she lay beside him, trying to pretend worry wasn't keeping her from sleep.  His hands—human hands—had gently rubbed at the tightness there. The knots in her neck and shoulders had begun to ease away beneath his fingers as he told her everything would be all right. He thought Belle had even believed him till she rolled over, turning to him and holding him as tightly as she could, afraid to let him go. Later, learning the day his son had been born, he thought that must have been the night they summoned Bae's small life into being.

He wanted to hold her like that now, to soothe away all the pain and ache of seven years.

That had been Lord Maurice's plan, hadn't it? If Rumplestiltskin had correctly pieced together the bits and pieces Bae had given him, Belle had gone to Maurice for help, and he had come up with the brilliant idea of finding another man to bed the scarred, injured woman fate had landed on his doorstep.

If there was anything worse Rumplestiltskin could do her than taking her in his arms and trying to kiss it better, even his imagination failed to conjure it for him.

So, instead, he made small, pathetic attempts to rub the tense muscles in Belle's neck, whispering soft, hollow reassurances as he did.

"You're not here," Belle murmured. "Not really."

Always the clever one. And right again. As always. The man she'd loved, the one who deserved to be with her was gone, turned to ashes in the conflagration that had created the Dark One.

But, there would be no comfort in telling her that. Instead, he swallowed back the pain in his chest, that he told himself was a laugh trying to escape at the sad joke of it all, and said, "Real enough, sweetheart. Now, rest. You need to rest. I promise I'll watch over you."

Watch over her. Another duty he had failed at, telling himself she didn't deserve it, doing everything he could to convince her to stay behind in Maurice's court. Then, trying to drive her back. He'd wondered if the Dark Ones who went before him ever watched their successors. If so, he wondered how hard they were laughing now.

"I love you," she whispered. The words were barely more than a mumble. She was falling back into real sleep. Which she needed, he reminded himself. There was no reason to try and keep her awake. Especially for this.

She said something else. It sounded like, "I miss you."

Unwisely—the most unwise thing he'd done since he thrust the dagger through Zoso's heart and took his powers—Rumplestiltskin began to lean in towards Belle, ready to draw her towards him.

Firmly, he pictured Belle the night he'd tried to kiss her, conjuring up each line of horror in her face, the terror shining out of her eyes. He pulled himself back, away from her. He couldn't touch her, he told himself. Not like that. Not ever.

Maybe he could have, if he hadn't been such a fool. He imagined himself appearing in Maurice's court with his human face, dressed like a king. No deal making, no promises, just an announcement before them all that he had come for his wife and son. He would have offered, of course, to free the Marchlands and protect them, but that would have been as a monarch rewarding the underlings who had done him service, protecting his family. Every sharp tongue that had wounded Belle would know she was greater than a queen and that her son better born than a legion of princes. . . . Perhaps, if he'd done that, he might have made it so that, someday, he could hold her—just hold her, nothing more—without fear of conjuring that terror in her eyes.

It was too late now.

He wiped his transformation away. If Belle woke again, she would see the truth. It was not her husband but a monster sitting beside her, and she would look at him with all the revulsion he deserved.

"I miss you, too, sweetheart," he whispered, backing away from her, not sure if she heard him or not. "I miss you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Belle was reading is from her world's version of Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene. The story of Hellenore is pretty much as described.


	12. Paying the Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Trials of Messina" Rumple reads from is his world's version of "Much Ado About Nothing." The lines he read, in the actual play, are spoken in different scenes by different characters, but I thought they suited Rumple's mood.
> 
> I tried to read up on the 19th century British navy's flogging and other punishments. As far as I can, Belle's account of it is accurate as were the details Rumple recognized.

It was three or four hours past midnight. Rumplestiltskin usually knew the time in his castle without glancing at a clock, but he'd lost track. He'd finished the book of tales hours ago and moved onto another that suited his humor better.  _Trials of Messina,_  after all, told the story of a lady falsely accused of betraying her husband-to-be and how the idiot believed the charges and publically humiliated her. It was her cousin's true love who stood up for her and tried to defend her, leaving the court of his liege lord when he wouldn't accept her innocence.

" _'My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you,'_ " Rumplestiltskin read. " _'I must discontinue your company. You have among you killed a sweet and innocent maid. I thank you, princes, for my lady's death: Record it with your high and worthy deeds: 'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.'_ "

He stopped abruptly. Belle's eyelids had fluttered for a moment, and she turned her head towards him. He saw her open her eyes and look at him.

X

Belle heard a voice. It had a gentle, comforting sound, like water in a brook, though she could not quite make out the words. She turned towards it and opened her eyes. They were still blurry with sleep. She saw a figure sitting by her bedside, reading from a book. But, the reader saw her stirring and quickly put the book aside. The figure turned the little knob on the oil lamp on the bedside table, making the flame burn brighter. At the same moment, Belle blinked the last of the sleep out of her eyes and saw that it was a man by her bed. The Dark One looked down at her.

Rumplestiltskin saw the fear in Belle's eyes as she recognized him. He was already reaching out to her. He meant . . . he wasn't sure what he meant. To brush away the lock of hair that had tumbled towards her eyes, to gently touch her face, or just hold her hand. Madness, all of them. He pulled his fingers back as if he’d been burned.

"Belle," though his voice had been steady as he read only seconds before, now it sounded rough and hoarse. "How are you feeling? Do you—do you remember what happened?" His fingers twitched towards her again, longing to reach her in some way, to offer comfort.

The blood drained from Belle's face. "I ruined your deal," she whispered. "Didn't I?"

Belle watched the Dark One's hands. For a moment, they reached out to her with their fishhook claws. Then, he looked at them as if just surprised they were there. His hands stopped, his fingers fluttering uncertainly, like the wings of a bird caught in midflight.

"Belle," he began, though he never used her name. She was always "Madam" or "Dearie," depending on his mood. "Madam" went with his harsher moods, "Dearie" with the kinder ones. She didn't know what his calling her by name meant, but the change unnerved her further. "How are you feeling?" he went on, his voice rough. "Do you—" His voice shifted, becoming deeper, a threatening rumble hiding beneath it. His claws twitched as he spoke. "—Do you remember what happened?"

He'd told her to leave while he negotiated with the sheriff. For her. And she'd left, just as he'd told her to. Belle relived the panic and fear, feeling as if the walls were closing in on her. She couldn't breathe. She'd had to get out of the hall, out of the castle. Belle wished she could run out onto the ramparts now, escaping him, despite the memory of the biting cold.

The cold.  Belle remembered that cold seeping into her, her confusion as she'd tried to find her way back, the snow blinding her. She remembered slipping and falling, and then—

Belle stared at the Dark One as the truth hit her.

Vivid memories rose up, choking her. The post in the village square, a metal ring at the top that a rope was put through, her wrists bound at either end, arms pulled high above her head as Hordor ordered the whipping to begin. The soldier doing it had warned her not to move, not to try and twist out of the way. "I'll be aiming for your back," he'd said good-naturedly. "Don't shift and ruin my aim. It'll be the worse for you if I miss."

They didn't believe in leaving such things to chance at sea. On Jones' ship, Belle or any sailors up for flogging were always tied firmly in place, backs exposed to the cat.

Jones had sounded so calm as he gave the order for the punishment to begin, no hint of anger or passion in his voice. Though, from how he was after, she knew that was a lie.

Belle had done the worst crime she could in the Dark One's eyes, she realized, far worse than any of the excuses Jones had used to punish her. "I ruined your deal.  Didn't I?"

X

Rumplestiltskin stared at Belle, not understanding. "Deal? What deal? What are you—?"

"Please," she said desperately. "I—I can still—I can do what you want—I can—I can—"

The gods knew he'd seen people begging for their lives. He knew what desperation looked like and how to make it pay his price. Belle was pleading to pay a price so horrible she couldn't force out the words. Because she feared something even worse.

It took him a moment to understand what that 'even worse' was: him.

"Belle, no— _no_." She was struggling to get up when she shouldn't even be moving. He took her by the shoulders, trying to lower her back into bed. "You can't—I wouldn't—" How did he even make his argument? He might as well be an Ogre protesting he never meant to eat her as be the Deal Maker swearing he didn't want her deal.

Only then did he realize he was doing what he'd told himself not to, what could only make things worse: touching her and pushing her back—back into a bed.

He expected her to start screaming. Instead, Belle froze, going utterly still under his touch, as still as a rabbit under a fox's gaze. Worse, he thought. The rabbit still hopes not to be noticed if it doesn't move. It doesn't sit still and mute, knowing it's already prey.

Belle's protests died. She looked up at him, no hope of escape in her eyes, waiting for whatever he decided to do.

X

As suddenly as he'd seized hold of her, the Dark One let her go, backing away as though she'd scorched him with her touch. His hands were raised, like a man surrendering. Belle almost thought the Dark One was staring at  _her_  in horror.

"Belle, I wouldn't—I—" The Dark One swallowed. He wrapped his arms around himself. "I made no deal for you with the sheriff. The only bargain I offered him was the chance to keep his tongue between his teeth. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even offered that, not without your permission." He passed a hand over his brow. Slowly, he sat back down in his chair, lifting his hands again, showing them empty. They trembled and twitched, as if he weren't certain what to do with them. "Belle, let me—let me tell you a story."

X

Rumplestiltskin shied back from the truth—the full truth. He'd seen how Belle held onto the locket and he'd heard Bae talking about his father last night. The memory of him, of the man he'd been, a man who loved her and cared for her, was one of Belle's anchors. He didn't dare take that away from her, not when he had nothing better than a cruel, petty,  _blind_  fool to put in his place.

"Once, a long time ago I was just—" He didn't look human, and there was no reason to pretend he was. "—just an ordinary one of what I am. I lived in a village. I had a family." Family. It sounded like more than just the two of them. Rumplestiltskin wasn't going to hurt her with the truth, but he wasn't going to lie, either. "I—I had a wife." He looked at her, pale and nearly dead because of him, looking up at him and expecting the worst. He wished he could go back and change everything from that stupid, hellish moment at the inn and say what he should have said there. "Who I loved. Very much.

"The Ogre Wars came to our lands, too. I was called up to fight—I wanted to go," he added hastily, as if she might doubt him. Bae thought of his father as a hero, and that's what he'd meant to be when he marched off to the frontlines. "I wanted to be brave. And I had people I—I needed to keep safe." Even more than proving himself to the people who still whispered he was his father's son, that had been his real reason for going. He was fighting to protect Belle and their village.

"Our army had a seer, a young girl." Belle probably knew no more about Seers than he had back then. They were rarer than witches and wizards, and the tales told of them rarely came near the truth. "Seers aren't born, you know, not often." He wasn't going to tell Belle how that poor child had been scarred, the black lines that tore across her face where her eyes had been cut out or what had been done with them, reset in her hands. "But, sometimes, if someone is cruel enough and the gift is strong enough and the Seer is lucky—or unlucky—enough to survive the attempts to change her, there are ways. A child with a touch of Sight can be made into something more. Most of the time, they aren't lucky, and the seer dies. Or goes mad."

"This girl, though, she'd lived. I was set to guard her cage—that's how they kept her, locked up in a covered cage like an animal. I didn't know what was inside, not till she started calling to me. She told me things about what would happen in the battle, and she tricked me into helping her get away." He ruminated on that. He suspected men had died because of her escape, the men from his village in the battle the next day, other men (and women—and children—as the Duke grew more and more careless about who he sent to die). But, freeing her—it still might have been the right thing to do. "I might have helped her anyway. She was a child, and the things they'd done to her. . . ." Yet, setting her free didn't change what had been done, and other people—other children—had died.

He wondered, if he'd never spoken to the Seer or ignored her warnings if Morraine would have lived.

Morraine would have wanted him to let the Seer go.

"Before she went, the Seer gave me a prophecy. Seers are tricky at the best of times, and fate is a slippery thing to get hold of." He didn't mention his own experience with seeing the future. Keep it simple, he told himself. "She warned me—I understood her warning to mean I would die if I went into battle the next day, and my family—my family would suffer because of it."  _Your son will grow up fatherless. Murderers and worse will prowl around him._

"I'd seen it before," he added. "Children abandoned, left fatherless." He tried not to think about his own father. Best not to mention him. There was too good a chance Belle might recognize those stories from the past. "Then, the war came, and things were worse. The Ogres never cared if their victims were soldiers or innocents." He'd seen the ruined villages the Ogres left in their wake, and he'd seen survivors who'd managed to escape or hide. "I saw things that gave me nightmares for years." They'd probably still give him nightmares if he slept the way normal people did.

"I . . . couldn't do that to my family. I took a stone mallet and crushed my leg." He saw Belle flinch. Was she imagining bones splintering under the blow? She looked at his legs, as if expecting to see blood and bits of femur, but both limbs were whole and hale.

"I survived," Rumplestiltskin said, skipping over the consequences of that choice. "And was branded a coward. Word reached my village ahead of me. By the time I returned. . . ." It hurt. He thought it wouldn't, not after all these years, not when everything he thought he knew had been thrown into confusion. He closed his eyes, reliving the empty house and Hordor's lies. The words burned as he said them. "My wife, my family, they were gone.

"They said she was ashamed of me, ashamed to be known by my name. They said she'd—she'd become a rich man's mistress, that she wouldn't even acknowledge I was the father of. . . ." He shook his head. That was another lie. He'd seen Bae's eyes glow last night as he spoke about his father, repeating the stories Belle had raised him on. There'd only been a moment when he hesitated.

"Lord Maurice says I shouldn't talk about him," Bae had said. "Only to Mama. He says it's not polite to talk about him at court. But, it's all right if I tell you, isn't it? We're not at court." Rumplestiltskin assured him he could say whatever he wanted, and the stories came pouring out.

"It doesn't matter," Rumplestiltskin said to Belle. All the lies didn't matter. Except they did. For centuries, he'd believed them. He'd nearly destroyed Belle because of them. He opened his eyes and looked at her, pleading with her. "For years, I blamed myself. I'd failed her, shamed her before everyone, and she'd left me. Then, I became a wizard, the Dark One. There's a very long story behind that. It's as unpleasant as the Seer's, in its way, only I did it to myself.

"And I . . . changed. Part of it was power, part of it . . . it's a dangerous thing to suddenly be able to do whatever you want. I stopped the Ogres and saved our people. But, I also. . . . There was a man who would have hurt Morraine. She was like a daughter to me, and I . . . stopped him. He and his men were dragging her from the house when I did it. But, Morraine. . . ." He didn't want to lie to Belle about this, even by omission. But, he'd seen her fear. Rumplestiltskin remembered when he'd first held the dagger and summoned the Dark One. His power over Zoso had been absolute. He could have told him to tear out his own heart, and Zoso would have had no choice but to obey. Yet, after years of living in the village and with all the casual cruelties that went with it, Rumplestiltskin been terrified. Zoso had towered over him, a burning darkness with eyes of flame, like the shadow that his father had tossed him to as a child. If Zoso had demanded Rumplestiltskin give back his dagger, he might have been stupid and terrified enough to do it.

That's what Rumplestiltskin was for Belle, a child’s nightmare come to life. Listing his past crimes in all their gory detail, even if he explained how he'd done everything to save his foster daughter, would only convince her there was a monster sitting beside her. He sighed and went on with his tale. "Morraine was afraid of how I'd changed. She found a magical doorway to another world, and ran away." And he'd let her go. He'd healed Morraine's mother after he'd defeated the Ogres. At the time, he'd imagined them becoming a big, happy family. But, the older woman had been even more frightened of his growing madness than her daughter was. They'd called on the Blue Star, who had granted their wish.

Except Rumplestiltskin had learned of their plan.

The murderous anger and mad humor that had dominated him by then for weeks vanished, like a small ember in a cold flood. All he could find inside him was the poor spinner, abandoned, despised. Morraine and her mother were making the same decision Belle had. Even with all his power, he'd failed them. They didn't want him or anything he could give them.

Instead of stopping them, he'd left out a large pouch full of gold on the table that night. He'd pointed it out to Morraine, who thought she was being so sneaky as she gathered a few things she thought he wouldn’t notice, clothes that (she said) needed mending, boots that (so she told him) needed a good polish.

"I have some business that will take me away for a few days," he'd told her. "I won't be here for market day. If you see something you like, I wanted you to have coins to buy it." He'd given her other gifts, a king's ransom in jewelry, a crown encrusted with precious gems, but gold coins would be easier to spend wherever they were going.

He'd watched from the shadows as Morraine and her mother used the magic bean they'd been given. Cold fear had washed over him as the portal opened. Rumplestiltskin knew his father had chosen to let him go, but he had dreamt for years of green fires that ate his papa and turned him into a monster who fed children to shadows. He'd almost called out to Morraine and her mother, telling them not to go, to come back.

Instead, he'd watched them leave, telling himself it was for the best. Despite his power, he told himself, he was still the poor spinner, the village coward. They knew him for what he was and they despised him, feared him.  They were right to go.

"I had a magic charm," he told Belle. "Made with a lock of Morraine's hair and a drop of her blood. It told me she was still alive and well. Till, one day, it didn't. She'd died.

"I found a doorway of my own into that world. It wasn't even hard. Some worlds have very different rules that make using magic to reach them difficult. Some are almost impossible to reach. But, this one was very like our own. I—I could have followed her easily, if I'd wanted. When it could still do some good.

"But . . . she'd been afraid of me. With cause. I . . . thought it was better. And she died."

He'd found the men who killed Morraine and her mother, robbers who'd noticed the strangers with plenty of gold. . . . They'd stolen the jewels as well as the coins. Rumplestiltskin hadn't made them more of a target by giving Morraine the gold.  Or so he told himself.

The leader of the small gang had kept the pouch. It was good craftsmanship, after all, well woven. Her other things had been thrown away in a ditch. Rumplestiltskin had found her doll.  But, there were no bodies for him to bring back and bury. In that land, they burnt the dead and scattered the ashes, believing it freed the soul.

Before he killed them, Rumplestiltskin had made a point of telling the robbers he was going to bury their bodies where they would never be found. He'd turned the leader into a crippled rat first, small enough to fit into the pouch he'd stolen. It made a decent casket.

"After that, I found the Seer again. We had a long talk. She lived alone in the forest, as far from people as she could get. Her gift was less painful that way. The futures she saw were less complicated, and very little she could do—or failed to do—would change them. Hedgehogs don't pay attention if you warn them one side of the tree would be better to build their burrows on than another. 

"I . . . wanted to make up for Morraine. The Seer told me there was a child I had to find. I would have to save him from a curse and protect him as—as if he were my own. She meant Bae.

"She also told me I would have to pay a price to his rightful guardian. I thought she meant Lord Maurice. But, she didn't. She meant you.

"Belle . . . I'm sorry. Before I even spoke to you in Maurice's court, I told myself you were . . . like my wife. I was wrong about you. I—I think I was wrong about her, too, all these years. She saved our family. I. . . ." Now this was becoming tricky, as he picked his way through the truth. "I met one of our children years later. She was gone, then." _Gone under the curse._ If Belle ever did learn the truth, he might have trouble convincing her that wasn't a lie. "So, I still don't know why she did the things she did." _Though I can guess_. "Our son didn't know—he didn't even know who I was. But, he was alive. He'd been cared for and protected, all the things I couldn't have done for him. She'd saved his life, the lives of all our family." Her life as well as Bae's.

"You remind me of her in so many ways. That made me angry, at first. These last few days I've begun to realize, if you're like her . . . then, I was wrong about her all these years. She did what she had to. To save the people she loved.

"At the festival, when I tried to kiss you—I'm sorry. I was thinking of her. I told you before, you're a servant, not a sacrifice. I was asking for something I had no right to, and I'm sorry. And I had no right to be angry with you. But, I swear to you, I would never have—have taken more from you than that kiss.” And even that was more than he had any right to take from her, more than he could even ask for without pouring salt into raw wounds.  “I would never sell you to a man or—or force you to bed one, no more than I could have done that to Morraine.

"But, Belle, please, tell me. When you went out into the storm, you almost died. Was that what you wanted? Were you trying to die?"

X

Belle looked at him. She was so tired and empty. His grief for Morraine sounded real. But, there had been times Jones sounded sincere as well when he told her he regretted the punishments he gave her, apologizing for the necessity even when she saw the hunger in his eyes.

There was no hunger in the Dark Ones eyes, inhuman though they might be. She thought he looked close to weeping.

Did it matter? Whether he was lying or telling the truth, it didn't change why she'd gone out. "I couldn't breathe," she told him. "It felt as if the walls were closing in on me. I had to go out. By the time I felt I could go back in, I couldn't find the way. I remember slipping and falling. The snow broke my fall, but I was too tired to get up. . . . How did you find me?"

"Bae," he told her. "He'd been taking a nap. When he woke and couldn't find you, he came and got me." His hand twitched towards her. He pulled it back, wrapping his arms around himself again and looking miserable. "It was an accident? Truly?"

"Yes."

He nodded, but his misery seemed to increase. "I . . . have to pay your price, Belle. And I haven't. I haven't given you anything you need or anything you wanted. I—I think the only way to do that is for you to leave, you and Bae both."


	13. A Brief Moment in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go well. For a little while.

The house had a great hall of its own. The wall facing the gardens was circular with plenty of windows and large, diamond-paned doors going out onto the grounds. Whatever they were set with, it wasn't glass. The Dark One had mentioned in passing that those doors were strong enough to keep out an army of Ogres.

The library was built over the hall. It also had plenty of windows and a beautiful view of the grounds. Something about them reminded Belle a little of her garden back in the Frontlands. Of course, it had been just a kitchen garden, with plenty of vegetables and herbs. Like any peasant woman, the few flowers she'd grown all had practical uses—medicine and dyes for weaving—but she had tried to make it beautiful.

Her mother had nursed a rosebush through the harsh, Frontlands winters. She'd given Belle a cutting from it that had grown well that first summer but died when the cold came. Instead, Rumplestiltskin and she had had a wild rose bush. The flowers were plainer than her mother's roses, but it smelled as sweet and gave them berries to get through the winter. But, Belle had used some of the flowers from her mother’s bush in her wedding wreath.  She'd dried the wreath and saved it, of course. When Rumplestiltskin went to war, she'd taken a rosebud from it and bound it with a lock of her hair. She'd put both in a small sachet strung with ribbon that she gave to Rumplestiltskin to wear close to his heart. For luck. And for remembrance.

She supposed all the Frontlands women—mothers, daughters, sisters, sweethearts, and wives—had done as much. Their small luck wishing hadn't been enough to hold back the tide of death, but the remembrance (she clutched her locket) had been strong. She'd kept a lock of Rumplestiltskin's hair in a small, linen bag. Jones didn't know the Frontlands custom or she was sure he would have made her get rid of it. As it was, she'd had to hide it among her clothes.  She’d added dried lavender and rose leaves to disguise it as a sachet for her linens.

Outside in the garden, Bae was playing with Crystal and Bianca, her servants' children.

Servants. It felt strange to have servants again. Or for the first time. Gaston had given her maids. They fixed her hair, prepared her clothes, cleaned her rooms—and shared any secrets they learned with Gaston, not that she'd had many.

Though he'd chosen them, the Dark One swore her servants worked for her and her alone. Wisely or unwisely, Belle thought she believed him.

Their name was Dove, Goodman Dove and Goodwife Dove. The goodwife was a fair-skinned woman of middle years, small and round. She wore a white cap over her brown-black curls and had eyes as dark as her namesake's. Her husband was a giant of a man—Belle would have believed someone telling her he was part Ogre—who enjoyed tending the garden and caring for all the birds in the dovecote that had been installed on the grounds. Goodman Dove spoke very little.  He seemed sullen at first till she'd watched him teaching the children how to lure the birds to their hands with a bit of seed.

Belle, standing in the shadows as she watched the children play in the sun, saw Bae's happy, smiling face. She could spend her days up here, she thought, quiet and alone, watching everything from a distance.

Did Bae even need her anymore?

"Do you like it?"

Belle turned around and saw the Dark One watching her, as anxious as a puppy hoping to be praised and afraid of being kicked. She wasn't sure how an evil sorcerer managed that. "I was just watching Bae," she said. "He seems so happy. It's strange. To see him be safe. To . . . not need to protect him from anything."

He came and stood near her—he was careful, not coming too close—and watched Bae and the girls. "There were other children at Maurice's castle. Didn't he play with them?"

"Sometimes," Belle said. "But . . . the court was always difficult. Dangerous. Rank and birth meant everything. And some people—some people saw him as a threat."

"Because you're Lord Maurice's daughter," he said. "And Baelfire is your son."

He said the words so flatly and calmly. It was what she had promised never to ask, never to admit suspecting. When there were whispers all around her, she refused to hear them, refused to even think of them. She looked away from him. "I didn't say that."

In return for her promise, Maurice had agreed to give them a home and his protection—for her  _and_ for Bae.

He'd kept that promise for over two years. Or three hundred. He'd sold Bae, but it wasn't into danger. She didn't know if he'd known that, but . . . Bae was safe. And he'd traded her son for all their lives, the lives of everyone in the Marchlands.

Had Maurice broken his promise? Did she still owe him her silence?

The Dark One had no such qualms. "It's true, isn't it?" he asked. "Maurice's sons are dead, and Gaston is only a distant cousin. Your mother was a noblewoman of a great family. Your claim—"

"Is illegitimate," Belle said evenly, not arguing but not admitting anything. "As am I. And the laws of the Marchlands are clear. Sons inherit. Or sons-in-law."  _Or grandsons._ But, words like that could get Bae killed. Even here. "If Maurice acknowledged a . . . a daughter like me, the husband would have a claim."  _Or our child._ "But, Gaston's already the heir. He gains nothing through—through such a wife."

"I'm surprised Lord Maurice didn't want someone of his line to inherit."

Belle closed her eyes, wanting to say it.  _Yes, that's what he wanted. He wanted my child to rule after him. Just so long as that child wasn't Bae._ But, the words stuck in her throat.

"He—he _gave_  me—to Gaston," she whispered. She could say this so long as she didn't say the reason. "He promised me, if—if I—if  _we_ —had a child, he'd see to it Gaston married me. But, we never did." She'd curled her arms around herself. As if she hurt. Why? These were just the simple truths of her life. Being beaten hurt. Being whipped or flogged hurt. Truths didn't. Or they shouldn't.

"But. . . ." Now, it was the Dark One's turn to choose words carefully. "You already had a son."

Belle laughed bitterly. "A peasant's son. Maurice would have been happier if Bae had no father at all. He—he might have acknowledged a bastard daughter if—if—But he would never give a peasant's child a claim to the Marchlands. Never."

"Would he have . . . hurt your son?" The Dark One's voice was mild, but Belle heard the danger in it.

Hurt. He meant kill. Would someone drown Bae like an unwanted kitten? Belle closed her eyes, trying to shut out too many fears and memories. Gaston had never threatened Bae. Maurice had tried to get her to send him away, but he'd never forced the issue.

Jones—the Dark One was asking about Maurice and the court, but she remembered Jones. He'd let her keep Bae. It gave him another threat to hold over her. When she hesitated to do what he wanted. When the pain and humiliation was too much. He reminded her that her life wasn't the only one he held in his hand.

And there had been other times, times when he was simply irritated that there was a small, mewling creature Belle had to care for living on his ship.  _This pink, naked, squirming little larva that wanted to eat your dreams alive and_ _never_ _stop!_

It hadn't been Jones who said that but she could imagine the words in his mouth.

But, Jones had understood on some level Belle wouldn't last long if Bae was gone. So long as she still amused him, so long as he wanted her and didn't forget himself in one of his cold fits of temper, Bae was safe.

But, what would Maurice have done if he'd decided Bae was a threat?

"I . . . don't know. It—it was always when he was feeling kindly towards Bae that he spoke of letting him do—do dangerous things. Like train to be a knight." And he had felt kindly. He had seemed to care about the boy who may have reminded him of his own sons. Sometimes.

He'd loved Rosamonde. That hadn't stopped him from doing what he had to for the Marchlands.

No, she wouldn't think of these things. Knights. Bae. "That's how Lord Maurice began, you know. He was just a knight. But, he saved the king's life in battle. I—I think he may have imagined Bae following in his steps. Sometimes." Just so long as it didn't endanger the succession or put a peasant's son in his place.

"Gaston, he. . . ." she could say this. Gaston wasn't here. She didn't need to please him or keep his good will. "Maybe he saw Bae as a—a rival. But, it was only a small one. Bae would have been no danger at all if—if I'd had a child by Gaston, a son, but. . . ." Belle shrugged. She was barren. For whatever reason, Bae was the only child she would ever have. "Gaston would have had Bae trained as clerk. If Bae had become a priest or cleric when he was grown, Gaston would have been overjoyed. And—" Belle hesitated, feeling as though she were betraying Bae by admitting this, "—and I would have been happy. That he wasn't a soldier. I didn't want him to die." She reached for her locket.  _Like his father._

"Clerics died, too, when the Ogres came," the Dark One said. "And soldiers. And peasants. And weavers."

Belle flushed. "I'm sorry. I know I'm foolish. I know you—you saw what the Ogres did. But, Bae's my son. I dreamt of some safe life for him. Behind high, thick walls where danger could never come. I. . . ." she looked uncertainly at the garden below. "I seem to have found it. I wasn't expecting to feel like this when it happened."

"Why? How do you feel?"

"Lost," she said. "Empty." She saw Bae down below, running through the gardens, happy and laughing. "Unneeded," she whispered.

"He needs you," the Dark One said softly. "You didn't see him when we found you in the snow. He was terrified. He couldn't bear it if he lost you."

After a moment, Belle nodded. "I know." She did know. Didn't she? "It's so strange to watch him like this. No dangers, no threats. Just children. Playing." She shook her head. "Just a pleasant day."

"Share it with him," the Dark One said. "Come with me and take a walk around the garden. Enjoy the sunlight, the flowers. See how you feel, then."

X

They walked outside. Rumplestiltskin pointed out things of no great importance—nothing fearful or dangerous. He told her the history of the cherry tree, one he had brought from his own gardens, how he had been given the cutting he had grown into this tree by an emperor far to the east, along with other treasures. It had been in return for weaving a cloth not everyone could see (Belle laughed as he told her how that had turned out). He told her details about the small brook that cut along the edge of the garden and the school of golden fish that swam in it. Like Dove's birds, the fish would come swarming if you offered them breadcrumbs. Rumplestiltskin produced a small bag for her and watched as some of the bleakness began to fade out of Belle's eyes.

He remembered when he'd told her she would have to leave. This house had seemed like a good idea, then—it had seemed like a  _necessary_  idea.

He'd told her as he'd tucked blankets around her and silently ordered the fire to burn a little warmer, "You need a safe place, a place where you can be with Bae and shut the world out—shut  _me_  out and keep me out, so I have no choice but to obey—if you decide to. I'd give you the castle, if you wanted." Never mind that he'd have to scour over it inch by inch to make sure he didn't leave any unpleasant magic behind. He could do that. "But, I'd have to camp out by the front door to make sure people—" or things that couldn't really be called people, "—didn't bother you. But, I was thinking a house of your own. With servants. You wouldn't have to do anything but sit in the sun or read in the library—it will have a library—all day, if you want. . . ."

Belle had been tired and more unnerved by his offer than excited. He wasn't sure if she even remembered it the next day or put it down to some dream. Of course, she was also had plenty to distract her that day. Bae had been bouncing up and down from the moment Rumplestiltskin told him his mother was awake till the moment he'd dragged the excited boy off so Belle could get some more rest, only to go through it all again when she woke up.

Belle had recovered quickly, though, the medicine Rumplestiltskin gave her doing its work. It wasn't long till she cornered him and asked what he'd been talking about. In a way, he supposed he'd been hoping she'd forgotten. He could ignore the burst of conscience that made him promise that safe place to her. Instead, they could try to go back to how they were before his terrible stupidity on All Soul's. She could pretend it never happened, and he could pretend not to see the fear in her eyes.

Rumplestiltskin had been in his workroom, carding gold and nettles, when Belle climbed all the way up the stairs—she was still too weak for that, he knew. She would have had to stop every few steps to catch her breath. He remembered how, tired and distracted, she'd forgotten what she meant to say, staring at his work instead. Some parts of it were grass green, some glittering gold. Some were transforming into a blue only a few shades darker than Belle's eyes. "What are you making?" she asked.

"Thread," he said. "Eventually. See? It's the nettles you beat down for me." He held up the green fibers, hoping it was a good thing to show her there'd been a use for them other than just torturing her. "I'm mixing it with gold to make yarn." He pointed to his wheel where he had already spun some into sky colored thread.

"But. . . ." Belle hesitated. She was always careful before contradicting him. Or asking a question he might take as a contradiction. Still, in the end, she wasn't afraid to say it. That was something. ". . . .that's  _blue._ "

"So it is. You know how, if you mix blue and yellow, you get green?" It wasn't actually common knowledge. Most people, when they dyed their cloth, followed recipes that had been handed down and wouldn't have dreamed of mixing a dye made with blue flowers with a dye made from yellow ones for fear of wasting all that work. Apart from dyeing, how often did people mix colors? It wasn't as if they could just pluck the colors out of daffodils and leaves and throw them together. But, Belle had been married to a weaver and learned quite a few secrets of his trade—even adding some of her own innovations.

"Yes," Belle said.

"Well, the yellow in the gold covers the yellow in the green, leaving only the blue."

"That doesn't make sense."

He smiled, pleased. That contradiction had just burst out of her without a touch of fear. Even if it was only her weariness speaking, it was something. "Oh, it makes perfect sense, dearie, just not the kind most people are used to. Magic works that way. Here, maybe this will make you feel better." He brought out a cloak he'd made. It was a mottled combination, green and yellow. "I made this from gold and nettles, too, but I kept them separate. "I. . . ." It was his turn to hesitate, turning shy. "I thought you might like it. The nettles have protective powers, to shield you from curses. And other things." It wasn't mourner's black, but he could change that. Although, she wouldn't be in mourning forever. Would she? Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure if he wanted that or not. After all, he was the one she mourned.

Belle ran a hand uncertainly over the cloak, as if she expected it to sting her and was surprised when it didn't. "Is this what you meant to use the nettles for when you had me beat them?"

Rumplestiltskin turned evasive, avoiding a direct lie. "I hadn't decided what use I'd put it to." He'd meant to make the clothes for Bae and keep some of the rest of the thread for later, but he hadn't  _decided_. "But, you more than earned it." He ran a finger along the cloth. "I learned how to make it from a witch's daughter, centuries ago. She had seven half-brothers her mother had turned into swans—her mother wanted her daughter to inherit everything. The girl made nettle shirts to turn her brothers back." Making the shirts was nearly as painful as making the thread, Rumplestiltskin recalled—or it was to someone without thick scales on his hands. "Her mother had a tracking spell on her that would find her the moment she spoke, so she kept silent the whole time she was working on them. People thought she was a witch herself. She was nearly burned for her troubles. But, her brothers flew to the rescue at the last moment. She threw the shirts on them—they were going to burn the shirts with her—and her brothers were changed back, all except the youngest. She hadn't had time to finish the sleeve. He was only partly changed. That's why she came to me, to turn his wing back into an arm." Was he babbling or being charming? He wasn't sure.

Belle put the cloak down. "You—you said I'd have to leave," she said. "When I was better. Well, I'm better."

"You're out of breath just from walking up the stairs to my workroom." He studied her intently. "In fact, I'm surprised you didn't pass out. You should sit down.”

It was Belle's turn to glare. She couldn't help herself, though she looked away quickly when she realized what she was doing. She sat down obediently in a chair, head bowed, making herself small. "I'm sorry. I—I don't mean to be ungrateful. Not after all you've done."

All he'd done. Abandon her. Believe lies told by her enemies. Accuse her of betraying him. Torture her. Terrify her. Try to steal her son. Let her think he was going to let another man pay for the privilege of raping her. 'Ungrateful' was better than he deserved. "You're not. I don't want you to think I'm deserting you." He looked at her hopefully. "I'll come every day, if only to keep up with Bae's lessons. I'll haunt the house till you're sick of me and throw me out, if you allow it." Wait. He'd been trying to reassure her. Haunting the house till she kicked him out wasn't reassuring.

But, his babble surprised a laugh out of Belle. She covered her mouth quickly, and he saw the fear in her eyes as she realized what she'd done.  She watched him, waiting to see if he was angry. He pretended not notice, trying only to look anxious to please (should he have done something more? He wanted to hold her safely in his arms, protect her from every danger, even knowing that would make him the danger she most feared).

Still, he was encouraged. Rumplestiltskin told her his plan, a house near the village (he didn't mention he could raise it up by magic in no time and, with a bit more effort, make sure the weather around it was always mild. No more blizzards if Belle wanted to stroll the gardens. That would be a surprise), servants who would be loyal to her and do all the work (the Doves, he thought. They were almost painfully straightforward and loyal, had daughters close to Bae's age, and he had saved their lives, more or less. He could trust them. And there was that dwarf and his ex-fairy wife. He'd helped her break free from the winged sisterhood and marry her short lover, even if he had charged them for the privilege. Perhaps he could make a deal with them), and anything else Belle could think of.

Belle had smiled—at him—and looked encouraged.

The Doves were persuaded. He hadn't spoken to Nova and the dwarf, not sure if he wanted them around. The fairy was all right, but her husband could find a cloud around any silver lining. Rumplestiltskin didn't think Belle needed that. The dwarf would probably be busy with his boat, anyway. The house was built, despite the snows (what else was magic for?), and a small pocket of gentle summer reigned over it.

The house was made of warm colored woods, polished till they shone like honey, not cold stone like his castle. The plastered walls were painted in soft colors, off-whites and pastels. Rumplestiltskin hung tapestries he had seen Belle admiring in the castle. The floors were covered with thick carpets, jewel-like pieces from Agrabah and comforting, soft wools from the Frontlands.

Packed away in a small room in the castle, Rumplestiltskin still had the few bits of furniture he and Belle had kept in their home. He'd tried to think of some excuse that would let him put those in Belle's house, but even he couldn't come up with any that sounded believable.

And, now, they were here, and he wasn't sure if he'd done the right thing or not. He'd tried to listen to the things Belle said—and the things she hadn't said. He wasn't sure there had been a moment in the past six years that Belle hadn't been thinking about whether a choice would protect Bae or endanger him. Even her own safety and survival, he'd come to realize, only mattered to her because Bae needed her to protect him and keep him alive.

He'd been frightened by the hint of emptiness he'd seen in Belle's eyes as she began to believe Bae was really, truly safe. He needed her to know it would destroy their son if something happened to the mother he loved so much. The boy needed her— _Rumplestiltskin_  needed her.

Belle began to brighten as they walked in the gardens. He saw her simple pleasure at the cherry blossoms and the fish in the stream. When Bae came running to her, his face beaming, she glowed. Rumplestiltskin found his fears easing a little. There had been so much that had gone wrong, he told himself, he was seeing dangers where there were none.

All the same, he still worked a small charm before he left. He shaped it into a ring and handed it to Dove. "This will begin to warm if your lady is in danger. It will burn if her life is threatened," he told the giant. "Wear it always, and don't let her come to harm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on the Doves: I couldn't squeeze it in, but the Doves' story is a different take on the fairy tale of Jorinda and Joringel. A wicked fairy turns a young maiden, Jorinda, into a bird, who must be freed by her true love, Joringel. In this version, Mrs. Dove, as a young woman, was turned into a dove by a witch. She escapes the witch with the help of an actual dove. The witch, who didn't like anything escaping from her, spent considerable time and effort trying to hunt them down and kill them before they wound up at Rumplestiltskin's castle. That wasn't the end of the story but, eventually, the pair both wound up in human form and married. Doves, by the way, are among the animals that mate for life.


	14. The Cup of Kindness, a Bitter Draught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumplestiltskin goes to see Maurice to find out more about Belle's time in the Marchlands.

Rumplestiltskin appeared in Maurice's study, intent on getting answers. Maurice started (as always) at Dark One's sudden appearance then tried to pretend he hadn't. Rumplestiltskin grinned like a child who'd pulled off a prank (as he always did) and, with a large flourish, produced the bottle, setting it in the middle of the papers Maurice was going over.

The bottle itself was a gift worthy of a king or, at the very least, a minor noble.  It was that glorious shade of ruby that only glass made with gold salts could achieve. Not content with that bit of showiness, jagged lines of true gold, like the streaks in marble, ran through it. The wax around the sealed top (of course) was covered with gold foil.  It was a fitting vessel for the excellent liquor within and as tempting an offering as Rumplestiltskin could make. The truths he wanted were ones he doubted Maurice meant to share. But, Rumplestiltskin had long ago learned it was better—and easier—to gently draw out hard-kept secrets than try to force them, and this was just the potion to do it.

At least from a man like Maurice. Belle's secrets. . . . No, he thought, he was wrong to think of them as secrets. They were wounds, ones Belle couldn't be forced—or tricked—into showing without tearing them open.

"What have you brought?" Maurice asked, eying the liquor uncertainly. Since being freed of the curse, Maurice had had the chance to learn some of the stories his neighbors told about the Dark One, the good and the bad (mostly bad). A blood-red bottle, no matter how kingly, was something he needed to be reassured about.

" _Uisge_ ," Rumplestiltskin said. "A favored drink of the Frontlands, I believe." He watched Maurice as he mentioned the Frontlands, but there was no reaction. Didn't the man remember where Belle and Bae came from? "This is supposed to be some of their finest and over a hundred years old. . . ." He went on about its virtues, while making two glasses appear on the table, cut crystal edged with gold, something befitting so fine a beverage. Maurice began to show some interest.

The Marchlands were known for their vineyards. The people were drinkers of fine wines and brandies—very _weak_ brandies, for all the gold they brought.  Maurice wouldn't know the brandy glasses Rumplestiltskin put out were much larger than the ones  _uisge_  was usually served in any more than he would recognize how potent the smooth, beautifully aged liquor really was as it slid down his throat, its richness hiding its full power.

As for Rumplestiltskin, it took a great deal of the strongest liquors to make him even a little drunk, a sad fact he'd learned during some of his darker days after Morraine’s death and times when he'd begun to despair of ever breaking the curse, no matter what the prophecies said.

The meeting itself didn't raise Maurice's suspicions. It was part of the deal for them to get together like this. They discussed trade and the Marchlands' relations with its neighbors. Rumplestiltskin, after all, was obligated to help them find their footing in this brave, new world. He'd even allowed the lord of the Marchlands certain, very limited rights to summon him. After all, if he was protecting this land, it wouldn't do to let the place be destroyed while he was too busy to notice.

Maurice took a sip. Eyes widening, impressed with what he'd sampled, he drank more. "That's excellent," he said. "From the Frontlands? I hadn't known they produced anything worthwhile. Has the world changed so much in three hundred years?"

Rumplestiltskin shrugged carelessly, wondering again if Maurice remembered where Belle was born. The man could be insufferable but, Rumplestiltskin reminded himself, he understood the duties of a lord—far better than the Duke of the Frontlands or his underling, Hordor, ever had. When Rumplestiltskin offered Maurice his deal, Maurice had been the one to first bring up the state of his people's homes and whether or not they would have enough to eat.

As Lady Rosamonde had said, her husband lacked imagination, but that didn't mean he didn't understand the basics of the lives of commoners. When he cast the curse and reshaped his lands, he'd used it to fix cottages and erect new ones for those left homeless in the war. Refugees who'd gone to sleep taking shelter in a ditch had woken in houses with watertight roofs and well-warmed rooms. Folk who had been in rags found themselves in sturdy, unpatched clothes. There was plenty of food for the winter and good supplies of firewood to cook it on.

And yet, Rumplestiltskin, looking over the Marchlands before the curse was broken, had seen things he would have done differently. The clothes Maurice provided the peasants were plain and all alike. Their food was bland and flavorless. Maurice understood his people's needs but . . . Rumplestiltskin was tempted to say Maurice saw his people the way a herdsman saw his cattle, without individuality or needs beyond food and shelter. Except the herdsmen Rumplestiltskin had known hadn’t thought that way. Frontlands shepherds knew the personalities and quirks of all their sheep far better than Rumplestiltskin thought Maurice understood his people.

He'd saved them, Rumplestiltskin reminded himself. It wasn't his fault he couldn't see how small, seemingly insignificant kindnesses would have eased his people's suffering even more. A small child could have woken with a long lost toy in his hands when nightmares threatened. The young woman who had seen everything she had go up in flames might have slept on linen sheets like the ones her grandmother had helped her sew.

The parentless children who were crowded into the Marchland orphanages might have woken up members of families. Or some of them might have. There were too many, Rumplestiltskin thought, for even the curse to have found them all good homes—or bad homes. But, some of them.

It wasn't how Maurice thought. Those were the kind of needs he couldn't see. Besides, it was too late now. Rumplestiltskin's power might be able to preserve the good the curse had done, but even his wasn't strong enough to add so many changes, not without a price they were all better off not paying.

Yet, it was still more than so many had had after the Ogre War in the Frontlands. Rumplestiltskin himself, despite leading the child-soldiers home from war, had been unable to do as much for them, not in those days when he was still learning the full extent of his powers.

It was not in keeping for the image Rumplestiltskin wanted Maurice to have of him for him to suggest finding homes for orphans—but he  _had_ managed to convince Maurice to have the idea on his own. It had taken a bit of work but it had been worth it.  As for the ones he hadn’t found places for, the world was large. Rumplestiltskin, Deal-Maker and Child-Seller, might yet find homes for the rest.

But, that wasn't what he was here to discuss with Maurice tonight.

He listened with half an ear as Maurice described how life was returning to a kind of normal. Ships were coming into the harbor again. The sailors had been afraid at first. There were risks in setting anchor in a place that had vanished for three hundred years, after all. But, Maurice happily reported, they seemed to be learning that the curse was really gone (they'd also been driven back by storms and, in a few of the more stubborn cases, what looked like very large, convincing sea monsters, not that Rumplestiltskin meant to boast). Trade was beginning to reestablish itself. Maurice's main concern, now, was rebuilding ties with their neighbors.

"You should marry off Gaston," Rumplestiltskin said, with absolutely no malice towards the overgrown clown. "Make a proper alliance instead of expecting me to do all the work." He fixed his cold eyes on Lord Maurice and, with even less malice (really), said, "Or you. You could remarry, someone young and pretty whose family would be only too glad to go on protecting these lands when you're dead and she's left running the place in your name."

Maurice glared. "Gaston is my heir. I won't replace him."

Rumplestiltskin poured Maurice another glass. "No, no, of course not. But, surely, a child of your blood. . . ." He cleared his throat delicately. "There are ways to ensure conception, herbs, spells. If that concerns you. . . ."

Maurice's interest kindled. "Belle was barren, you know."

All right, that was quicker than Rumplestiltskin expected. He'd meant to carefully lead the conversation to Belle and Bae. But, he wasn't one to refuse what he'd wanted just because it had been gift-wrapped and handed to him. Feigning innocence, he said, "What do you mean? She has a son."

"That coward's grub," Maurice said. "To have  _that_  be the only thing she's ever—ever  _spawned,_ the weaver's brat. Three years—nearly  _three years_ she shared Gaston's bed, and what came of it? Nothing."

Rumplestiltskin kept a look of polite amusement on his face, sipping his drink while he got control of his anger.

_The coward's grub. Spawned. The weaver's brat._

_Maurice saved Belle and Bae,_ Rumple told himself.  _Without his curse, they'd have been killed by Ogres. They'd have died years before I could cast a single spell. Without the help Maurice gave Belle, they'd have stayed Jones slaves till the day they died._ Which might not have been long, Rumplestiltskin thought. Even if Belle survived Jones cruelty, he would have become bored of her, would have decided she was growing old, would have decided he'd had enough of her son. Jones may have mourned the beauty he'd lost when Rumplestiltskin finally met him, but that was because he wasn't used to losing what he thought of as his. If Belle had died instead of escaping, Jones would have recovered quickly enough. If he'd killed Bae . . . Rumplestiltskin knew Belle wouldn't have survived Bae's loss. Maurice had saved her from that.

"I thought you liked the boy," he said mildly, refilling Maurice's glass. "There was talk of you sending him to train as a page."

Maurice's expression softened. "The boy might have made something of himself. He was his father's son, but he has good blood on his mother's side. He might have lived down his father's name—I'd have been proud of him if he lived it down. But, not as my heir."

Rumplestiltskin's eyes narrowed, like a tiger eying its prey. "Belle's yours then?" he asked softly. The question Belle had been forbidden to ask, the question Maurice would never answer.

The lord of the Marchlands looked up, blurry-eyed. There was none of the wariness Rumplestiltskin had been watching out for. It wasn't just the liquor making the man talkative. Maurice wasn't Rumplestiltskin. He didn't enjoy manipulation and secrets for their own sakes. Yet, he'd had to keep the secret of the curse—and his part of it—for three hundred years that only he remembered passing. He could have broken down and screamed the truth to his courtiers day after day (there may have been days when he had), and no one would remember.

Rumplestiltskin, for all his demonic appearance, was the first soul Maurice had been able to share the truth with. Since making off with Belle and Bae, Maurice was the only person in the whole castle Rumplestiltskin bothered to speak with. In an odd way, Maurice already recognized the Dark One as a confidante, someone he could tell the terrible secrets he couldn't tell anyone else.

Just so long as he didn't reach the horrible, drunken stage where he was likely to grab the person he was telling all his secrets to and start burbling things like, "Y'r m'only friend, m'besht friend." And then, likely as not, start blubbering all over the suit.

"She's mine," Maurice said. "Mine and Elise's. I should have told Rosamonde. Or Elise should have told her. She would have forgiven us. She forgave me when she saw Belle. I think she'd suspected all these years. But, Elise ran away instead, and she sold that beautiful girl to a coward, gave my daughter to him as if Belle were a—a  _sow_  being mated to a prize pig. A child of mine could have married a cousin of the king's—I discussed it with him when I married Rosamonde. If she'd ever had a daughter. . . . And Elise shackled my girl to a muck-eating cripple. It was her revenge on me, letting a worm so low, it would have been an insult to let him lick the dirt from my daughter's shoes, letting a beast like that rut with my precious child. . . ."

Rumplestilt skin went hot, then cold. He couldn't kill Maurice. They had a deal. He couldn't curse him or transform him. Belle would be angry with him if he did. "And Jones," he grated, bringing up the other beast who should never have been allowed to touch Belle and who made a safer target than Belle's father. "Don't forget the pirate captain and what he did to her."

Maurice grunted, taking another drink. "At least, Jones was a gentleman. And an officer. I wanted Belle for Gaston, but maybe I should have married her off to Jones. Rosamonde hated the idea, but I could have paid him to claim the weaver's brat was his. Maybe marriage would have kept him from throwing his life away in a fit of pique. He'd been a good captain, by all reports."

 _And whose reports would those be? The sharks who ate the corpses buried at sea?_ Rumplestiltskin put down his glass before he could crush it in his hand. "Belle begged you to save her from Jones, and you'd have  _given_  her to him? Forced her to  _marry_  him?"

"It would save the honor of the house," Maurice said. "He was a hard man but he was honorable. And he'd never have been able to press for the coward's brat to inherit, not if the marriage couldn't hold up. . . ."

"That man  _tortured_ her. He  _forced_ her into his bed. He—"

"Oh, don't be foolish," Maurice said. "It's all Elise's fault. Do you know what Belle told me when I asked her why Elise sold her to that ragged beggar? Belle said her mother wanted her husband to be  _kind._ " Maurice sneered. " _Kind._ Not honorable. Not noble. Not brave. Not even rich, though a rich peasant is like an ass made up as a warhorse.  _Kind_. Jones did what a captain needed to so he could keep order on his ship. Belle herself admitted she did the things he punished her for. He didn't know she was noble born. He should have recognized what she was, but how could he? She was  _proud_  of having gotten down in the mud and let that pig ruin her. That grub of his was all she ever cared about. I thought, when you came for him, I could finally break her free of the past. If she had only had another child, one without his filthy blood, I could have married her to Gaston. The coward must be dead by now. It wouldn't matter. . . ."

Rumplestiltskin stared at Maurice, the words not making any sense.

Except they did.

Maurice had called him a coward, a cripple, unworthy of Belle. Rumplestiltskin had grown so used to hearing those names in the years after the war, he'd almost forgotten there'd been a time when no one called him that. But, they hadn't, not before he returned from the war.

He'd said Jones would never have been able to press a claim for the Marchlands based on marriage to Belle because "the marriage couldn't hold up."  There was only one way that could happen.

"You knew," Rumplestiltskin said. "You knew her husband wasn't dead."

Maurice nodded, brooding on the unfairness of it. "I sent word to the Frontlands to learn the truth. Elise was dead. Did you know it? She died before the coward ever disgraced himself in the war. If that was part of her revenge, she never saw it completed."

Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes. Elise had died when the river flooded (the Ogres, attacking upstream, had destroyed a dam that protected the lands below). She could have saved her own life but she was leading children to safety—had done it, too.  She’d saved all of them.  Just not herself.  Stubborn, brave, merciless Elise. Her death was one of the reasons Belle had been so afraid for him when he went to war. Women, children, the Ogres spared none. That was one of the reasons he’d thought he had to go.

"The village headman tried to get Belle to leave that piece of filth when they had news how he'd turned craven—he crippled himself rather than face battle, the coward—but, she wouldn't hear of it. The headman admitted he'd pressed her harder than he should have. But, the man was her liege lord's servant, the leader he'd put over her people. She should have done as she was told. . . ."

Done what she was told. Rumplestiltskin remembered Hordor dragging Morraine out of her home, telling her to do as she was told.

And Hordor had called him a coward. While the headman was cobbling together a collection of lies and half-truths to protect himself from a noble's wrath, to hide how he'd had a woman whipped and sold because she wouldn't  _do as she was told,_ he'd been accusing Rumplestiltskin of being a coward.

And Maurice believed him. Because, in Maurice's mind, what made a story the truth was who told it—and what they told. A village headman, loyally obeying his duke while he sent children to be slaughtered? He had to be an honest, decent man. If he had a woman publically abused and sold as a slave, he did it with her best interests at heart.

And Maurice thought it was all right Jones had had Belle.  Of course, a woman struggling to survive Jones’ company must be a true threat to a battleship’s day-to-day command. Maurice regretted not forcing her to marry a man who would leave those scars on a woman's back and the deeper scars Rumplestiltskin's magic had revealed inside her—not just any woman, but the woman Jones forced to share his bed each night. Because Maurice would sooner believe Belle had deserved it than question an officer's honor.

"Kind," Rumplestiltskin breathed. "Elise wanted her daughter to have someone kind. If you cared for Elise at all—" Had he? Why was he so certain Elise would want revenge on him, even if it meant destroying her own daughter? Besides the obvious fact that, in Maurice's mind, everything that happened was about him. "—you would honor that."

Maurice fixed his drunken, confused eyes on Rumplestiltskin. "What's the point of kindness?" he asked. "It wears out. If a man marries a noble's daughter and knows any power or influence he has with her family depends on treating her well, he'll treat her well. If he starts out kind, but there's no one to protect her interests, what happens when food runs short? What happens when she's sick and has to choose between tending their crops and tending her? How many men stayed kind during the Ogre Wars? How many were generous when they had nothing? Kindness wears out."

Rumplestiltskin started to snarl an answer—but he saw Belle begging to protect Bae when he'd wanted to leave her behind and carry the boy off; he saw her hands bleeding and oozing puss from the work he'd given her; he saw the terror in her eyes—terror he'd refused to recognize for what it was—when he'd tried to embrace her by her bedside in an inn, her son sleeping just a few feet away.

He saw Belle, frozen and nearly dead, when fear of him and what he'd do to her had driven her out into the snow.

Rumplestiltskin got up, leaving the  _uisge_  behind. "You're right," he said. "Kindness doesn't last.

"Enjoy the  _uisge._ Drink it in good health." Then, he vanished into the darkness, reappearing in the cold, empty halls of his home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Uisge" comes from "uisge beatha," the Scots Gaelic term for whiskey.


	15. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple and Belle discuss family.

The Dark One and Belle were walking around the gardens that day after Bae's lessons. Belle told the Dark One how, earlier, Bae had insisted she play the princess while Bae, Crystal, and Bianca were the brave knights who rescued her from the dragon (a largish bird borrowed from the dovecote). Belle fed the dragon breadcrumbs to keep it from flying away too soon. When it finally did fly off—all the yelling and wooden swords being waved about were making the dragon nervous—they ran about even more, yelling that they were dodging fire while the dragon tried to kill them. At one point, Bianca declared that she hadn't gotten out of the way of the fire in time and was about to die. She also told them they must all be very sad and cry for her. This led to an argument. Crystal, who was seven, didn't see any reason she should act like a crybaby, especially when it was Bianca's own fault for not being careful. Bae didn't see why Bianca should be dying in the first place. It was only a dragon. It wasn't like it was an Ogre or something scary. Bianca declared that she could so be dying and that Crystal must be an Ogre if she couldn't cry for her sister when a dragon had killed her. Crystal said, if Ogres cried for their sisters, then they were big crybabies, too.

Belle had interrupted the fight by pointing to the sky and saying, "Oh, no! The dragon is coming back! Save me, good knights, save me!" and the debate on death and the mourning habits of Ogres was tabled as they drove back the dragon, waving their swords, then led Belle to safety on the other side of the garden.

Everything would have ended happily, except Crystal told Bae that the boy-knight always had to be kissed by the beautiful maiden after a rescue. Bianca thought that meant her and grabbed Bae.

"Bae ran to me, screaming. He said he had girl-ooze all over him," Belle told him. "He had to wash his face before it poisoned him."

The Dark One laughed. "Girl-ooze? Where did he get a phrase like that?"

"It's what the children say—or the ones at the castle did. I think it's because the healers were always talking about wounds oozing, especially when they're bad."

Belle treasured the moments like this, walking peacefully in the warm sun and laughing about innocent games the children played. She also (she admitted this to herself) enjoyed being with the Dark One. She didn't know if she should. Remembering how she'd begun to feel safe around him before the night in the inn, she wondered how badly she would pay for enjoying the quiet, safe feeling of their time together. But, perhaps, she told herself, it would be worth it.

Or not. The Dark One was already giving Belle a sideways look, the one that meant he had something difficult to tell her. "I went to the Marchlands," he said carefully. "To see Lord Maurice."

Belle came to a sudden stop, wanting and not wanting to hear what the Dark One would say. "Did he—did he ask after me?"

"We spoke of you," the Dark One shifted like a guilty child, not sure he should make his confession. "He called you his precious child."

The blood thundered in Belle’s ears. She could not have heard that right. She could not have.

"He called me his . . . his child?"

"I asked. It was said in confidence. Just to me. But, yes, he did. Here, you need to sit down."

Although Belle usually flinched when the Dark One touched her, she hardly noticed this time as he put his hands on her arms, helping to steady her and helped her sit on a marble bench (there had been no marble bench there before. Had there?). "He never—he told me I must never ask. He would never say—he really said that? He admitted it, that he's my father?"

The Dark One nodded, watching her uncertainly. "It means so much to you?"

Belle shook her head. "I don't know. I don't. . . . When Maurice brought us off the ship, I was so afraid he'd send us back. Or, if something went wrong, if Gaston—if he—"  _If he tired of me. If I bored him. If Maurice died, and it was no longer worth Gaston's time to keep Maurice's bastard as a pet. If he decided Bae was a danger to him._ "—if he decided not to be my . . . protector any longer. If he threw me on the streets." Belle shut her eyes, trying not to remember what that could mean, trying not to remember the darkness of the ship's hold and men taking their turns with her. She remembered one of them slapping her across the face when she cried and another pulling him back.

" _Not the face,"_ he'd said.  _"The captain's particular about that. Don't mark her face."_

If Maurice acknowledged her, doors that would be slammed in the face of a noble's rejected, penniless mistress—especially if that noble wanted her son out of the way—would be opened for the last living child of Lord Maurice even if she wasn't an heir.

But, though she told herself that was all that mattered, it wasn't.  _His precious child_.

She had lost everything. Her mother, Uncle Claude, then Rumplestiltskin, even the village where she could have mourned alongside friends and neighbors who had suffered the same, terrible loss. She had no family, no kin. In Maurice's court where she had no power beyond Gaston's favor and where the simplest conversations could hide deadly traps for her and her son, she had had no friends.

For Maurice to admit he was her father, to admit she—and Bae—were family was everything. "It means we're not alone anymore," Belle said. She flushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—you've done so much for us—I don't—"

The Dark One waved this aside. "He’s family," he said. "I understand." He started to say something else, then, seemed to think better of it. "Your mother," he said. "And Lord Maurice. Do you—do you know how things were between them?"

If the Dark One had been a member of Maurice's court asking this—and if she'd been allowed to speak of Maurice as her father—she would have thought he wanted gossip, a salacious story he could repeat about the courtesan's wanton dam. But, his inhuman eyes seemed kind and a little . . . sad?

Oddly, she thought of Rumplestiltskin. The Dark One's scaled face was nothing like her husband's, of course, but she found herself remembering the way Rumplestiltskin had sometimes looked at her when they were first courting. He had the same odd mix of uncertainty with flashes of hope.

But, not the sadness, she thought. Rumplestiltskin had never looked at her with such sadness.

It was a mad thought, anyway. He was the Dark One, a frightening, powerful wizard. Belle tried not to forget what he was. She remembered the night at the inn and everything that had happened after until she nearly died in the snow.

It was only that, since then, things had changed between them. Belle knew how dangerous trust could be. But . . . he was always so careful around her, trying so hard not to hurt her again.

Not sure if it was the right thing to do, she found herself answering him as if Rumplestiltskin had asked the question. "My mother was a strong woman," Belle said. "Stronger than I am. They always tell you women in the Frontlands are like the land around them, hard as stone. Unyielding. Men die on the mountains or in the wars, and the women keep going. My mother wasn't born to it, but she had a Frontlands soul. Do you know, she was pounding on doors, waking people up when the Ogres attacked our village? Telling them not to waste time getting dressed, just to grab their things and run." Belle smiled ruefully. "She used to read up on battles when she was a girl. She had a fair grasp of battle tactics, Uncle Claude used to say, which meant she was  _very_ good. She understood what the Ogres were doing. They weren't attacking the village, they were breaking the dam." The Ogres had expected the people to huddle in their homes, getting ready for an attack, Claude said. They never would have stood a chance when the dam broke.

It was what she had wanted ever since she had been a little girl, Claude told her, to be the hero and save the day. If only she had had a chance to slay the beasts, it would have been perfect.

That was the kind of hero Maurice had been, Belle thought. At least, in the tales told of him. Brave and valiant, noble in battle. He must have been everything her mother adored.

"Maurice was a great hero in his younger days," she told the Dark One, trying to make him understand. "There are ballads about battles he fought, even before he saved the king's life. I think—I think my mother idolized him. Then, she was sent to live with him and Rosamonde—Rosamonde wanted my mother to have strong ties to the Marchlands. She was expected to strengthen Maurice's ties to whatever lord she married, you see, and . . . well, it doesn't matter, now.

"When Rosamonde fell ill, my mother was the one who nursed her—in the Marchlands, healing is a woman's art. Or a cleric's. I was told, when she first fell ill, they expected Rosamonde to either die or get better. It's what usually happens, isn't it? No one expected her illness to just go as it was for years.

"Maurice was always by Rosamonde's bedside in the beginning, night and day, praying for her to get well, afraid she would die at any moment. I'm told he went days without sleep, afraid of losing her the instant he closed his eyes.

"I suppose . . . my mother looked a great deal like Rosamonde. Only much younger. There were fifteen years between them. She was about the age Rosamonde was when she and Maurice married.

"I can see how it happened. There was Rosamonde, on the brink of death; there was Maurice, wishing more than anything Rosamonde would be the young, healthy woman he remembered; and there was my mother, adoring him and looking exactly like the answer to that prayer. They were together all the time, bound by the same griefs and fears. My mother saw the hero she'd always imagined—I've seen a portrait of Maurice back then. You might not believe it now, but he looked like everyone's idea of the perfect knight in those days." A more golden haired version of Gaston, she thought, if a bit heavier and more muscled. "I suppose that was reason enough for it."

"So . . . Elise wasn't angry with him?"

Belle laughed bitterly. Her mother may not have told Belle much about her father—and what she did tell her was carefully respectful, her mother was not a woman to cut down a father to his child, no matter what her grievances—but Belle had heard all her warnings about good men and bad men and what to look for in a husband she could trust.

Belle had thought her mother so wise then. She still did in many ways. But, her mother had known so little about the pain men could cause.

"Oh, she was angry with Maurice," Belle said. "She was furious. Sometimes—sometimes I think—Maurice was so much older than her. He was acting as her guardian. He was her  _hero_. And—and he—" But, Belle couldn't find the right words. What could she say? She was a commoner, no matter what Maurice had said to the Dark One, and there were crimes commoners never accused great lords of, no matter what the circumstances.

She remembered the burning pain on her back. She couldn't accuse a common sailor, not even if she'd seen his crimes with her own eyes.

But, the Dark One said what she couldn't. "He seduced her, that's what you think." Politically phrased, Belle thought. But, he said it oddly, with none of the mocking sneer Belle would have expected. If anything, he sounded as if he were letting go of a great weight.

"You sound relieved."

The Dark One ducked his head, embarrassed. "I am. I'd thought . . . worse things, much worse things. I'm—" he floundered. Were Dark Ones supposed to flounder like that? It didn't seem something evil wizards should do. "—I'm glad it's—it's not what I feared."

Belle looked away, understanding what he meant. "Did you know, they say a child's soul is created from the parents'?  When they come together in love, they give that love to their child.  If they come together in cruelty, in hate . . . maybe that's what I am. Jones used to say—" Belle stopped, swallowing back bile as memories hit her, making her sick.

No. These were just memories. They had no power. It meant nothing. She slowed her breathing, trying to find a still, quiet place in her heart.

There. Better.

She took a deep breath, focusing her thoughts on that calm, unmoving feeling inside, not letting memories get in the way of the words. "—used to say I deserved it. Had asked for it."  _He said I_ wanted  _it._ "The things—the things—"  _the things he did_ "—that happened to me. Is—is that what you think? When you look at me? Is that why you thought Maurice had—had—" Her voice fluttered, like a trapped bird beating itself against stone. Was that what he saw? The Dark One was a powerful wizard (the  _most_  powerful wizard around, in his not-so-humble opinion). She thought he would know about souls, more than she ever could.

But, when she dared to look at him, he was staring at her, horrified. Then, his horror changed to anger. Belle cringed back at the fury she saw in his eyes, though the Dark One didn't seem to notice. "I'd like a chance to discuss philosophy with the good captain. Pity he's dead," he growled. Belle, seeing that anger, thought she should feel sorry for Jones. She couldn't do it but she ought to.

The Dark One turned his attention back to Belle. The anger had gone as quickly as it came, leaving just that wistful sadness. "If looking at you, at your soul, told me what your parents were like and what brought them together, I would know they had the purest love of any who ever lived. But, that's not how it works."

Belle shook her head. Rumplestiltskin. She could imagine him saying something like that. She remembered the way he looked at her, as if he couldn't believe there was someone like her in the world or, if there was, that she could possibly be in love with him.

He'd been wrong about her. And so was the Dark One. She thought about everything that had happened since her husband died, the things she'd done. Every day she breathed had been a betrayal of his memory. "Have you ever heard the story of the siren?" she asked. "When you see her, she looks like the face of love. But, it's only what she seems to be. It's not what she is inside."

"I've met the siren," the Dark One said. "Believe me, there's no confusing the pair of you."

"You met her?" Belle stared at him, knowing she should stop being surprised at the things he told her, not that telling herself that seemed to make a difference. "Didn't she try to drown you?"

"She could try all she wanted, dearie. I don't drown."

He looked so impossibly self-satisfied, Belle couldn't help laughing. It was one of the ways he  _wasn't_  like Rumplestiltskin. Although . . . Belle remembered when Rumple set off for war, his smile, the jaunty confidence in his step. He hadn't been afraid of dying, not then. She wondered what he would have been like as a wizard. Yes, he would have laughed. He would have  _enjoyed_ what he'd become.

Belle shook her head, putting her ridiculous imaginings aside, and turning her thoughts back to her companion. "Is that because you're a wizard? Or is that because your people just don't drown?"

"Oh, crocodiles can drown, given enough time. I'd suggest bringing a book, a big one, if you wanted to wait while it happened. But, it would. Eventually. I just didn't bother drowning. Once I'd made that point clear, she and I had a discussion about the proper receiving of guests. We came to an understanding. I let her live and she gave me what I came for."

"What you . . . came for?" Belle asked uncertainly. It was something Gaston or one of his companions might have said discussing a woman. It was always like this, she thought. She would be feel comfortable, even safe. Till small, insignificant things, a handful of words, a turn of phrase, made her wonder if that safety had been an illusion all along.

The Dark One's eyes widened. "Ah," he said, running his tongue over his lips as if the double meaning she had just brought to his attention could have left a foul aftertaste. "Forgive me, my lady, I didn't mean. . . . My tongue runs away from me, sometimes. The waters of the siren's lake have healing powers. That's what I'd come for. That's why I didn't destroy her. Destroy her, and the waters also die."

"Oh." It was Belle's turn to be embarrassed for how she'd misunderstood. "What—what did she look like?"

The Dark One was silent a long time. "The face of love," he said at last, looking away from Belle. "I was angry when I saw it," he said. "I told her to never dare show that face to me again or I would make a loom out of her bones and use her skull for a drinking cup." Belle shuddered at the anger in his voice. It was too close to the anger he'd aimed at her when she first came to the Dark Castle. When she reminded him of his wife, she thought. Was that the face the siren had worn, then?

His anger passed and the Dark One's voice softened. "But, I told you, I didn't kill her. I didn't even hurt her, not really. I left her in the bottom of her lake in her house of dead men's bones. She hid herself there, out of sight, so I wouldn't have to see her. I don't know if she can wear a different face than the ones she shows, the faces of the people her victims love. I've taken water from the lake since then, but she's never shown herself to me again."

The Dark One looked at Belle again and saw how she was looking at him. "I'm sorry, my lady. I'm a monster, much as I try not to be."

Belle pulled her shawl closer around her. "It sounds like she was a monster, too. The dead men's bones, they were men she'd killed?"

"Some of them. I think the mermaids bring her more, the bones of men who've drowned at sea. They're her cousins, you know. But, she's killed many men, perhaps enough to make the house I saw. You can still hear their cries as the water flows through their bones."

And yet, he'd let the siren live. Because, the waters of her lake were too valuable to destroy. And, no matter what he said, because he hadn't been able to destroy a woman who'd worn the face she'd shown him.

The silence between them echoed with too much pain.  For both of them, Belle thought.  She tried to think of something else to say. "The stories all talk about men trying to steal her waters and being caught by her. Don't women ever try?"

"Ah, the lake's powers are interesting in that regard. A man who comes must face the siren. A woman who tries to draw out water without the siren's permission will be transformed and become a creature of the lake."

Oh. That would be a problem. "And children?"

His yellow eyes darkened. "The same. Boys, she drowns. Girls, she changes. But, only if they can get near the waters." He got that self-satisfied look again. "Thick thorns grow all around it now, for some reason, and stones block up the way. Children, heroes, they all have a great deal of difficulty getting anywhere near it."

Just then, Bae came running up to them, scratched and covered with dirt, holding an abandoned bird's nest he'd found while climbing a tree. Belle knew the works of the birds and beasts in the Frontlands but not in this mountain kingdom. She couldn't answer Bae's questions about what kind of bird had left it. The Dark One, however, nodded wisely over the nest and began to tell Bae about a bird called the ice swallow in the warm, summer light of the garden.

X

Belle was right. Rumplestiltskin _had_  felt relieved when she told him what she believed about her parents. If nothing else, he didn't have to choose between avenging his mother-in-law and doing something Belle would never forgive. Maurice's conviction that everything Elise had done with her life after fleeing the Marchlands was revenge against him was just his guilty conscience. Deep down, he knew how much harm he'd done her and that all the hardships she'd endured were because of him. And, great man that he was, be blamed Elise's "revenge" for the discomfort his guilt caused him.

Rumplestiltskin thought of the Elise he remembered. She'd been a hard woman, in her way, as Belle had said. She made her own choices and accepted the consequences, good or bad. It had been hard to imagine Maurice being able to go up against a woman like that and take what she wasn't willing to give.

But, Elise's strength was all in her fiery soul, not in her small body. Rumplestiltskin knew from experience that winning a battle of wills wasn't the same as winning a battle. If it had been, he would have bet his will against Hordor's any day, especially when it came to protecting Morraine. He would never have needed the Dark One's dagger to save her.

If strength of will were all that was necessary, Belle would never have suffered any of the horrors that had left scars on her back and the hidden places of her body. Lady Rosamonde, who could order her husband from her sickbed to cut out her still living heart and use it as she commanded, would have driven back the Ogres with a word. She could have commanded the disease ravaging her flesh to depart and been obeyed. Will alone wasn't enough.

Besides, the Elise he'd known was who she had become over twenty years after fleeing the man who should have been her protector, the man who should have been the hero she'd worshipped, after he'd proven far too human and weak. If that girl had still lived inside Elise, she had been too deeply guarded for him to ever see her.

Only her man-at-arms, Claude, the loyal servant who had helped Elise in her escape and watched over her—and given her the patina of respectability that a young woman with child and claiming widowhood needed to back up her claim—he was the only one who knew that long-ago girl. And, whatever she'd been through and whatever she feared to return to, Caude had judged it worth giving up the life he might have had if he'd stayed behind—he'd judged it worth Elise's own decision to give up the life of a noblewoman for the life of a not-too-badly-off peasant (say what you would about his mother-in-law and her hard sensibleness, she was far too practical to flee without taking money with her).

Claude had been the one to bring them news of Elise's death. He had wept at some points (something Rumplestiltskin hadn't known he could do), laughed at others (a sight even stranger than his tears, but what else could he do when describing how Elise met death on her own terms? That small, almost doll-sized woman stealing away the lives the Ogres would have taken and defying them to the last?). He had left a letter, Rumplestiltskin remembered. He'd told Belle only to open it if she were truly in great need and under no other circumstances. That letter and her mother's ring were the only inheritance Elise had left her. The rest, Elise's house and land, whatever coins and other belongings she had owned, had been drowned in the flood. Elise wasn't a crocodile, to spend slow hours at the water's bottom before surfacing unscathed.

The letter had been gone along with Belle when Rumplestiltskin returned.

He should ask her, he thought. He didn't think she'd taken it with her. Maurice may have been a fool, but he was probably right about Jones. If he'd seen a letter sealed with a noble's crest and telling Belle the truth of her birth, he'd have delivered her to Maurice (and claimed whatever reward he could for a job well done).

Or killed her to hide the evidence.

At the very least, he'd never have set port in the Marchlands unless he was willing face Maurice and answer some hard questions. Maurice may have been a fool, but Jones couldn't  _know_ he would be.

But, Rumplestiltskin had pressed Belle enough for one day. He'd forgotten the old wives tales about souls. There was a little truth to them. Strange forces  _could_  be conjured in a child from the forces in their parents' hearts. Take little Princess Emma, daughter of Snow and Charming, who had far more magical gifts than her parents yet suspected, her birthright as daughter and granddaughter of true love. Alas that intelligence didn't run in her family. As for Bae, he might have been born long before Rumplestiltskin came into his curse, but he was the child of the Dark One. He was not untouched by power.

But, those powers didn't shape the soul. As an old hermit had once told Rumplestiltskin (they had engaged in a long battle of wits before the hermit finally gave Rumplestiltskin an amulet he'd needed), if your sins are not your own, how can you repent? No one was born to be punished.

Although (Rumplestiltskin reflected on his own life), some worked awfully hard at acquiring sins as rapidly as possible.

For now, though, he was trying to show Belle and Bae gentle, pleasant things. He picked up a fallen leaf from the grass and transformed it into the likeness of a small bird, to show them what an ice swallow looked like. It sat on Bae's fingers. Belle knelt beside her son while the boy showed it to her. Then, the bird flicked its wings, flew around them, and settled back on Bae's hand before becoming a leaf again.

Bae was asking Rumplestiltskin to change it back when Goodman Dove walked up to them. "There was a messenger at the door," he said.

Belle got up, brushing leaves from her skirt. She looked curious. "A messenger? Did you show him in?"

"No, my lady. He wouldn't stay. But, he gave me this to give to you." He handed over a thick letter, sealed with wax. Rumplestiltskin recognized the seal. It was the same as the crest on Belle's necklace. Belle opened it up and quickly scanned it. She turned pale.

"It's Gaston," she said. "He's coming here.


	16. An Unexpected Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reading Gaston's letter leads to Belle being asked an unexpected question.

Rumplestiltskin watched anxiously as Belle reread the letter one more time.

When he was a boy, Rumplestiltskin had tended the spinsters' vegetable garden. While pulling weeds, he had kept an eye out for the various pests that came after their plants. He remembered finding snails slowly eating their way through the green leaves. Sometimes, instead of just getting rid of them, he would brush a blade of grass against a snail's eyestalk and watch the eyes slowly sink into the snail's head, first the one he'd touched, then the other. Then, the whole snail would slowly suck back into its shell. He always thought it should become wrinkled and baggy, like a sack being emptied. Instead, it was like watching a plant grow in reverse, remaining just as solid, only becoming less.

Watching Belle read Gaston's letter was the same. She shrank into herself. The light he had seen in her eyes as they walked the grounds and she told him about Bae died out.

Rumplestiltskin had waited patiently—well, as patiently as he ever waited—but enough was enough.

"Is it bad news?" he asked her. Maurice, he thought. If the Lord of the Marchlands had died, his heir  _ought_  to have the mother wit necessary to send word to the man's daughter, acknowledged or not (though Rumplestiltskin hadn't seen signs the stretched-out beanstalk had any wit at all).

Just so long as Maurice hadn't died from drinking too much  _uisge_. . . .

But, Belle was shaking her head. "He says—he says Maurice is in good health. He asks after me. And Bae. He. . . ." Belle swallowed. "He says . . . he knows he treated me badly. He wishes to make amends and—" Belle closed her eyes. Despite what she'd said, she looked like a woman delivering news of someone's death—and an unusually horrible death, at that. Her voice fell to a painful whisper. "He—he asks if it is possible for him to come visit me."

"Do you want me to send him away?" Rumplestiltskin asked. "Or turn him into a toad? Or send him to the siren's lake? What do you bet she turns into him?"

Belle didn't laugh. If anything, the pain in her face grew worse. He might as well have been making quips at a funeral. "Please," she whispered. "Don't joke."

Something twisted inside of him. "Do you . . .  _want_  to see him?"

"No—yes—I don't know—I—" She got up, agitated, and began to pace, as if she were trying to escape her thoughts. Trembling, she came to a halt, her hands clutching her upper arms as though she were trapped in the blizzard outside his castle once again. If she'd been trying to escape them, her thoughts had caught up and taken her prisoner. Very quietly, she said, "I shared his bed for nearly three years—for three centuries, if the curse is counted. I . . . owe him. Something."

"I was there at the end," Rumplestiltskin said. "I saw how he treated you. You don't owe him anything."

Belle shook her head, though she looked sick. "It wasn't his fault. You made your deal with Maurice—"

"A deal he didn't try to stop," Rumplestiltskin snapped. He took a breath. Attacking wasn't going to help. In a calmer, kinder voice, he went on, "Belle, I've told you why I made that deal. But, Gaston didn't know my reasons. He didn't know what I wanted with your son. But, you remember what you thought. He had no cause to think any better of me, and he didn't lift a finger to stop it."

His words weren't helping. Belle looked pale and nauseated, as if he were torturing her, bringing up memories of that night. " _Enough_ ," she said. "It doesn't matter. I owe him this. No matter how things ended. I  _owe_  him."

Sometimes, Rumplestiltskin reflected, he didn't know when to leave well enough alone. He managed to force his voice to be gentle and measured, but he couldn't just leave it. "Belle, you don't. Maurice—" There were several things he could have said about Maurice, but he managed to rein in his tongue that much. Though trying to be tactful about the man felt very close to full-blown lying, "—was the one who made Gaston responsible for your safety, and he—"

"I agreed," Belle said lifelessly. "I made a choice." She closed her eyes, swallowing as if she was trying to force down bile. "It wasn't dishonorable," she whispered. "What I did." Her words were a question.

She'd saved Bae's life—and her own, little as she seemed to value that. She'd found a way to rescue them both from Jones when most women—and men—would have been beyond all hope. When the people she had turned to for help had tried to tear away the son she had sacrificed so much for, she had followed him into the Dark One's own lair, armed with nothing but her love and her determination not to abandon her child even when all seemed hopeless. She was the bravest, most honorable woman he had ever known.

But, that wasn't what she meant. Belle meant that, in the eyes of Maurice's court, it hadn't been dishonorable for her father to sell her off to as Gaston's mistress or for her to accept being sold.

A rosebush, he thought. Gaston would make a beautiful rosebush. And Rumplestiltskin would find snails and set them loose just to eat his leaves.

Except his deal with Maurice bound him to protect his heir. And Belle. . . . He looked at her. He had seen men in the Ogre Wars with faces like that, soldiers who had barely finished being bandaged up from their last battle stealing themselves to go fight in another. You didn't point out to them how weak they were or that they barely had the strength to lift their swords. They knew that. Instead, you tried to give them what encouragement you could as they filed out of the healers tents to fight again, hoping against hope your words would give them some strength to help to see them through—or some comfort if they didn't.

Or you did back then if you weren't Rumplestiltskin. He was the crippled coward. There was nothing worth hearing he could give them.

But, he could give it to Belle. He didn't need to tell her that just the memory of Gaston cut through her like an old wound being torn open. She knew that. And she was still determined to face it. He could only give her a few words to try and soothe that hurt—and promise she wouldn't face it alone.

"It was honorable," he said. "Everything you've done has always been honorable. I . . . will see to it Gaston receives whatever message you care to send. But, if you summon him here—" Because, if she had to see him, it would be here, in a place of her own strength and safety and not on Gaston's ground, "—let me be here when he comes. He won't have to know." He wanted to fight this battle for her, but Rumplestiltskin was equally sure Belle meant to fight this one herself—might even  _need_  to fight this one herself. "I'll transform into anything you want. I'll stay out of the way. But, know that I'll be here to help if you want me."

He thought Belle looked a little—just a little—more alive at his offer (his demand?). "Thank you," she said. Her voice was still weak and drained, but he thought—he hoped—the gratitude was real, that he was helping instead of making it worse.

Then, she got out paper and pen and wrote the letter he would have no choice but to deliver.

X

Belle was nearly sick with anxiety when Gaston finally arrived. He had brought a small entourage. Stomach churning, Belle tried to calm herself by thinking like a member of the court. What message was Gaston trying to send with the companions he'd chosen? What messages were there in the clothes he'd chosen? What sort of display was he making and why?

Belle's message was simple. She was standing by the front steps to greet him. She wore a very fine dress of black velvet but not the one she'd worn in the Marchlands on the anniversary days of her husband's death. Although she'd felt guilty asking the Dark One for more, she didn't want to meet Gaston in clothes  _he'd_ given her but she also didn't want to meet him in one of her black, work dresses. The Dark One's eyes had flashed with grim humor. The dress he'd given her was black velvet with long inches of delicate, black lace at the sleeves, hem, and collar. She wore earrings of jet and black pearls and a matching mourner's locket. The locket was the same one she always wore but covered in black enamel.  Gaston’s family crest was gone.

It had been the Dark One’s suggestion.  He had asked if she would like it remade as mourning jewelry. She wasn't sure if he knew what the locket meant to her or if he was only being practical, to make it fit with the rest. He was also the one who had asked if she wouldn't like the crest (or, as he put it, "That over-wrought bit of self-congratulation") removed. It hung on a jet and pearl chain he had given her, black as obsidian.

The obvious message was simply that Belle was a widow of some standing in the world, dressed in her best to greet a guest. The less obvious message—the one she wasn't sure Gaston would see but that she had to make for herself—was that she was no longer his vassal or dependent.

Any subtle reading of Gaston's message was . . . disturbing. He had brought three friends, Sirs Armand, du Vallon, and Henri. They were men of the highest rank, so it could be construed as a compliment to her, more of a compliment than a past mistress deserved.

More likely, it was just that they were some of his closest companions during the war, men who had fought alongside him in life or death battles. They would also be good friends to ride through some of the more dangerous roads between here and the Marchlands. Gaston had also brought his manservant, LeFou, and there was a young man from the village who had acted as their guide. It seemed it hadn't taken long for word to spread in the area when the Dark One built a house.

Perhaps she was reading this wrong. The great warrior, Gaston, and three knights. Perhaps, he just thought coming to see Belle counted as a battle. Or was he just wary (quite sensibly), entering the Dark One's domain?

Gaston dismounted and came up to her. She had no intention of curtseying before he bowed. She was the lady of this house and he was her guest, even if he was a lord. It was her prerogative to act as though she outranked him here. Gaston understood the rules she was acting under but, being Gaston, she had expected him to grin as though she were a child dressed up in her mother's ball gown. Instead, he bowed low and sincerely—as low as he would have bowed for Lady Rosamonde—kissing her proffered hand. Her hand was cold, but Gaston wouldn't be able to tell that through the velvet glove. The important thing was it didn't shake. He acted in every way as though she were a noblewoman far outranking him.

It meant nothing, she told herself. He'd played the part of courtier to her in the Marchlands when he wasn't giving her gently phrased commands. It was the way the game was played. A man often pretended to be his acknowledged mistress’ adoring slave.  His mistress quietly accepted his praise while doing exactly as he ordered.

She invited them in, letting Gaston take her arm. He was her highest ranking guest, after all.  But, her eyes went to the Dark One. He was wearing the same, bland form he had worn to the village festival. Only he had given himself human eyes this time, soft brown ones. He played the part of butler today, letting Goodman Dove deal with the horses. Unfortunately, there was no rule of etiquette that allowed butlers to walk alongside their employers when there were respected guests to do it.

LeFou accompanied Dove to look after Gaston's prize war stallion. Dove pointed the village boy in the direction of the kitchens to get some food. Crystal, Bianca, and Bae were there along with Goodwoman Dove, although Belle knew she would be in and out, helping to serve the meal. Still, she'd seen the kitchen windows open earlier and knew nearly all of Dove's birds were perched along the sills or on branches just outside. Belle wasn't quite sure what the birds could do if the village boy misbehaved, but she suspected the village boy wouldn't know either—and wouldn't want to find out.

They entered the dining room. The table was already set with a feast. The Dark One, still playing his role, pulled out her chair for her before Gaston could try to. Despite that, he remained blandly invisible (or so Gaston and his friends treated him) as he began serving food.

The Dark One seemed to enjoy role playing, Belle thought. She, on the other hand, was fighting to appear calm and tranquil. It had been easier once. Only a few months ago, she had faced worse than this every day with frozen calm. What had happened to her? She cut up her food and moved it around her plate but only managed a couple of bites, her stomach rebelling at the mere taste.

There was nothing frightening in the conversation. Gaston seemed at pains to put her at ease. He spoke of the Marchlands and how they were doing. "Do you remember de Montoya, the swordsmith?" he asked her.

Belle nodded. "Of course, he made that rapier for you. He was from La Mancha, wasn't he?"

Gaston nodded. "He came to the Marchlands, you know, to try his luck, making swords for northerners to fight against the Ogres. Then, he was trapped with the rest of us. It seems La Manchan steel became a lost art in these past centuries. De Montoya and the journeymen he taught may be the only ones left who know the way of it. There are kings who want to visit our lands just to ask him to make them a sword."

"That will be good for the Marchlands, won't it?" Belle said. "You don't think a foreign king will hire him away, do you?"

Gaston shook his head. "De Montoya married into an old, Marchlands family. His son married the sister of Maurice's captain of the guard. We're also all that's left of the world he knew. He won't be leaving us. Though Maurice has decided to raise him to gentry. He'll even be given a coat of arms." The conversation went on, safe and innocuous. The Marchlands seemed to be finding its way in this new world.

At least, they weren't facing this new world alone, Belle thought. Frightening as it might be, they had their homes, their families—they had the Marchlands. They would get through.

"The Dark One—I've heard frightening stories of him since the curse broke," Gaston went on. "But, we owe everything we have to him."

The Dark One, refilling Henri's wine glass had the faintest ghost of a smug smile.

Gaston searched Belle's face. "All the same, is it well with you?" he asked. "Does he treat you—and Bae—kindly?"

To Belle's surprise, Gaston looked truly concerned and a little ashamed of himself. Did he regret not standing up for her? Did he— _could_ he—regret not standing up for Bae?

"It is well," she told him. "The Dark One truly did want Bae as his ward. It was an old obligation, he said. One that makes more sense to wizards, I think, than to normal mortals. But, the Dark One is also used to his isolation. Not long after we came to the castle, he sent us here. He still comes to check up on Bae, but this is my home."

"You're in mourning," Gaston said. He himself wore a black band for Lady Rosamond. "He allows you that? He doesn't—doesn't place undue demands on you?"

Did he want to know if she was the Dark One's mistress, now? Or had he been afraid, as Lord Maurice no doubt would have been, that she was working as a servant? She wondered how Gaston would react if she told him about scrubbing marble floors and making eggs-in-a-basket. Probably with more horror than if she told him she was sharing a demon's bed.

Well, she could reassure him on both points. "No, he doesn't place undue demands on me. He—he only asks that I look after Bae."

Henri snorted, unbelieving. "A good price just for playing nursery maid."

Gaston stiffened. "Henri, go check on the horses."

"What?" Henri looked up, surprised. Henri had always been one for crude jokes—many of them at Belle's expense, though she'd learned to laugh at them and pretend to be amused. They were usually much worse than this before Gaston or anyone else told him to stop. Often, he had to insult Gaston or Lord Maurice himself before he was sent away.

"The horses, Henri," Gaston said. "Go see if LeFou managed to get his brains knocked out by my warhorse. Now.  That is—with your permission, Belle?"

"Of course," Belle said bemusedly. "We wouldn't want LeFou—or your warhorse—to suffer, Gaston."

Henri scowled but knew better than to argue. At the end of the meal, Belle offered to show them around the gardens.

"I'm sure Armand and du Vallon would like to explore on their own, if that's agreeable with you, Belle," Gaston said. "But, I would appreciate it if you could show me the grounds? And there is a matter I would like to discuss with you?"

Belle kept herself (barely) from throwing a desperate glance at the Dark One. She was beginning to rethink his offer to turn Gaston into a bush or send him to the siren. . . . No, not really. Because, while she might long for Gaston to be gone, she didn't think the Dark One had been joking about those offers.

"Of course, Gaston," she said, regretting the two bites of food she'd swallowed and wondering if they’d stay down. "You must see the fruit trees. They're quite lovely."

So, Belle found herself showing Gaston the grounds, pointing out a few things of interest. "There's some magic on the fruit trees," she said as they stopped by the cherries. "See how they're blooming and have ripe fruit at the same time?" She didn't know why she was doing this. A true knight was supposed to have some skill at the gentler arts but, the few times Gaston had even needed to write a poem, Belle had done it for him—and she hardly had the experience at court he did. She doubted he saw any special beauty in cherry blossoms.

"That would be useful during a siege," Gaston said. "It's warm and sunny here, but its winter just a few yards from your door. Is that more of the Dark One's magic?"

Belle shrugged. She had seen the snow beyond this small enclosure. "I suppose. We didn't discuss it, but he—he said he didn't want us to freeze if we went outside." Not again.

"Most people would buy a good pair of boots."

Belle, thinking of some of the clothes she'd seen the Dark One wear, couldn't help grinning. "He's been to the Marchlands several times since making his deal. Have you seen some of the boots he wears? He probably thinks driving away winter is easier than risking getting snow on them."

"He comes here often, then?" Gaston asked, looking around. Pleasant, sunlit gardens probably didn't seem like the right setting for the menacing wizard who had presented himself at court.

"Yes, he's appointed himself Bae's tutor." Hadn't she told him this before? Hadn't he been listening?

"He's teaching him magic?"

"Not really. When we were still in the castle, he let Bae watch while he made some of his potions and he explained what he was doing. But, that's all. Since we've been here, he helps Bae with his reading and mathematics. He's teaching him history as well." And plays games with him, and carries him to bed when he falls asleep after festivals, and comforts him when I'm sick and Bae is afraid I'll never wake up again. . . .

Gaston frowned. "Then . . . you believe him? That all he wanted the boy for was as his ward? His foster child?"

"Did you believe otherwise?" Belle asked, surprised by how cold her voice had become. "When you let him take Bae away?"

"I. . . ." Gaston ran a hand through his hair. "Belle, a demon had just told me we'd been under a curse for three hundred years, the world we knew was gone, Lady Rosamonde was had been dead for centuries, Lord Maurice knew this the whole time, and the only way we could be freed was by letting your son go with that creature—a bargain Lord Maurice had already made before that play-acting at the feast. I didn't know what to think."

She remembered the placating tone in Gaston's voice as he tried to pull her away from Bae. As if loss of her son were nothing. As if she were a foolish child who needed to let go of a toy that had to be put away. "And now?"

"Belle, I'm glad he treats you well. But, I've heard tales of him since you left. His reputation is far worse than we knew. Are you  _sure_ he doesn't need Bae for—for part of a spell. Or a potion. Or—"

"Of course, I'm sure!" Belle shouted, surprised to find it was true. She didn't understand the Dark One. There were times he frightened her. But, she knew— _knew_ —he would never harm Bae.

Gaston held up his hands, backing away from her. He seemed surprised. Had she ever stood up to him like this before? Argued with him, defied him?

"Belle, I'm sorry—I didn't mean—Belle, I told you, I did wrong by you. I—I want to make amends."

Belle bit back her anger. She remembered Hordor and what her blind rage at him had led to. Anger had never done anything but betray her. "Make amends how?"

"I—" Gaston looked around the gardens. She had the feeling he was a man trying to remember a script he'd memorized. "This is what you always wanted, isn't it? Not the life at court, just somewhere quiet and peaceful. I was wrong to make you do otherwise, wasn't I?"

Whatever Belle had been expecting, this wasn't it. "You gave us a home," she said, repeating the arguments she'd made earlier to the Dark One. "You protected us."

Gaston nodded. "But, listening to Henri's jokes, partying with us, even your time with me, that wasn't what you wanted?"

"I. . . ." She felt as if she'd been stabbed in the stomach. These weren't things Gaston was supposed to say. "I was raised in a village," she said. "Not court. Village girls don't—don't take lovers. Or, if they do and they're found out, they marry. Fast. Or become outcasts. I—I've never really known any other way."

No, she shouldn't say this. Henri, if he were here, would laugh and ask her what about Jones, then? And she would laugh and make a joke because, otherwise, Henri would make more and more jokes about her time at sea, each one cruder than the last, till she was ready to scream or grab one of the others' daggers and run him through. Gaston would chide Henri for it, but he'd still laugh along with him.

But, Gaston didn’t make any jokes. He merely nodded and got on with his speech, if that's what it was. "I should have respected that," he said. "Belle, please, let me make it up to you. The Marchlands have changed. Before the war, it was important that I marry well for an alliance. Now, it's as though we all want to pull tighter to each other, to strengthen the ties within our land. It would mean a great deal to everyone if Maurice's line continued to rule after he's gone. Please, Belle, will you marry me?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some inside jokes:
> 
> Gaston's friends are named after the Three Musketeers. I apologize to Alexandre Dumas.
> 
> De Montoya is named after Domingo Montoya, the swordmaking father of Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride.
> 
> La Manchan steel comes from the same place as Don Quixote. However, Toledo is also found in La Mancha. De Montoya, then, is a master of the lost art of Toledo steel.


	17. A Cold, Dull Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle tries to answer Gaston's question.

Belle stared at Gaston. He didn't notice. He had the look of someone busy checking off a list and making sure he had gotten through all the points he meant to make.  Belle's answer—her presence—seemed superfluous. She almost felt rude, interrupting his thoughts, as if she were butting in on a private conversation.

"Will I what?"

Now, he realized she was there, a minor player in this drama getting her lines wrong. But, he was willing to step in and try to rescue her. "Will you marry me," he repeated. He was forgetting to make it sound like a question.

Rumplestiltskin had stuttered when he proposed, stumbling over the words. He'd only been able to ask her after admitting all the reasons he could think of why she shouldn't (he was poor, he wasn't good to look at [liar! Or so blind to the truth], he knew she could do better—he'd then given her a list of people he considered 'better' who, he was sure, would jump at the chance if she so much as glanced at them), but swearing he would do his best to make sure she would never regret saying yes.

And she hadn't. Belle clutched her locket. Never, not for a moment.

Proposals weren't supposed to feel like you were being stabbed with a cold, dull blade. But, it wasn't Gaston’s fault, not really, that she had spent so many years smiling at him when he expected her to smile. There was no reason to tell him harsh truths now, not when she could use arguments he'd understand.

"Lord Maurice gave his opinion on this years ago, Gaston. If I—if I had a child—" Oh, but she had a child, and that wasn't what Maurice wanted at all. "— _your_ child, he would have expected you to legitimize it." Legitimize. Such an abstract, undemanding word. It didn't sound like it meant anything about marriage and mistresses and whether or not fathers would even look at their child.

"I can settle Maurice," Gaston said. "We've already discussed the need for continuance. You have no idea how much a marriage would help our people, Belle. And I'm not worried about an heir. I've heard of magical cures in this world." As easily as that, Gaston waved aside three hundred years of her childlessness, sure the universe would adapt to his needs. Then, he said what Belle had never expected him to say—words she would have sworn would never come out of his mouth. "But, even if we can't have a child, there's Bae. I'll have it written into the marriage contract if you like. A child of my blood will have precedence.  But, otherwise, Bae will be heir to the Marchlands after me."

If he had told her the cook's cat could have the Marchlands after him, she couldn't have been more shocked. "What? Gaston, you can't! You've never—you know what Bae's father was." The words burned her tongue when just the memory of her husband had been all that let her endure some days. But, Gaston needed to be reminded of what he seemed to have forgotten. "Maurice would never allow him to inherit."

"He's your son, Belle. Your legitimate son. It doesn't matter if Maurice wants him to inherit or not."

And those words weren't just insane, they were dangerous (dangerous to who, she wasn't sure, not when Maurice wasn't even here. But, she had spent too long living under the shadow of her promise not to even think about what Gaston was saying. "I'm not an heir, Gaston. It doesn't matter what—" No, she wouldn't say it. Just because Gaston had had taken leave of his senses didn't mean she would, too. "—what the rumors are. I have no rights to the Marchlands. You know that. Bae being my child doesn't make any difference—"

"I can get Lord Maurice to acknowledge you," Gaston said.

She stared at him, sure he was going mad. Or she was. Or maybe just deaf. "W-what did you say?"

"I can get him to acknowledge you," Gaston said. The words were eager. Happy. As if all the reasons that was impossible—utterly, eternally impossible—didn't exist. Had never existed. "He'll do it openly. Before the whole court—before the world. The betrothal party. That would be a perfect time to do it. There will be ambassadors, visiting dignitaries. We'll announce it before all of them. I'll declare Baelfire as my heir presumptive at the same time. This is what I owe you, to make up for everything, to give you an honorable name. _Please,_ Belle."

"This—this is too much—Maurice won't—"

"He will, Belle. You'll see."

"I—I need time to think." Yes, that was the right thing to say. Time to think. Time to consider whether any of this was even possible. Whether she had lost her mind. Whether this was a dream. Or a nightmare.

Gaston nodded, the slight hint of panic in his eyes fading away. "Of course. This is too much. You must be overwhelmed. But, think about it, Belle. You'll see. This is what's best for you, for Baelfire, for everyone."

He was so sure of himself. Belle could almost believe him. Best for Bae. Best for everyone in the Marchlands.

Best for her?

Frontlands girls didn't shame their families by taking lovers or becoming a man's mistress. An honorable name. She had let men take her and accepted the coins they offered afterwards. She knew what they'd called her. They'd said it often enough. She knew what Jones had called her when she obeyed his orders and entertained the men he chose for her. It was the same name he and his brother used when she begged them to stop and, when they didn't, when she couldn't hold back the screams.

" _Squeamish for a whore, isn't she, brother? Come on, girl, don't go all missish on me, stop pretending you don't enjoy it."_

_Jones laughed. "Go easy on her, Liam. She's the one who'll have to clean the sheets tomorrow. Of course, the little whore's upset. Tip her extra for the trouble."_

An honorable name. If she said yes, if she took what Gaston offered her, would that erase the past?

Why did the memories hurt so much? Why couldn't she just forget them? She'd grown so used to being cold inside, to feeling nothing. Why couldn't she do that anymore?

"I'm staying in the village inn," Gaston said. "Send me word when you're ready to speak again. I know you'll make the right choice."

Right choice. Were there any choices that weren't wrong, here?

Belle nodded numbly. _"_ I will."

And, maybe, if she could find the right choice, the pain would finally stop. Forever.


	18. Tears, Like Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle tells Rumple about Gaston's proposal and a bit about her past with Jones.
> 
> Content Warning: This is a really dark chapter. It goes into a lot more about what Jones did. There are some more details on how Belle got her scars.

Rumplestiltskin hadn't spied on Gaston and Belle. He knew Belle would be angry with him if she found out he'd been eavesdropping, just as he knew how frail and tenuous Belle's ability to trust was—not just him but anyone. They had a saying in the Frontlands,  _Don't break what you know you can't mend._  Belle, he thought, hovered so close to that line. He was terrified of pushing her over.

But, knowing that might not have been enough to keep him in line. What forced him to stay near the house, an alert servant standing by for any commands he might be given, was knowing how easily Gaston might push  _him_  over the edge. If eavesdropping could crush the small bit of trust Belle had, murdering her guest in front of her eyes could destroy her—or destroy any hope he had of rebuilding . . .  _something_  between them.

So, he wasn't spying on them. And he wasn't thinking about where to put Gaston, whether as a rose bush or a snail or an ornamental fish. Not an apple tree, pleasant as it might be to play bobbing for Gaston. A certain queen had given him a distaste for those. Although, it might be amusing to plant Gaston at Regina's old castle. Downright fitting, if you thought about it.

Not spying didn't mean he couldn't watch them as they walked around the gardens, however. He was playing a faithful servant, after all; and a faithful servant stood ready to serve. It was his _job_  to keep an eye on the lady of the house and be ready to hop to it if she so much as lifted a finger in his direction—especially if she decided a certain guest had overstayed his welcome.

But, when they'd gone out of sight by the cherry trees, it had been all he could do not to watch what was happening, magically or otherwise. He also had to remind himself that he'd been planting various spells of protection all over the grounds and house. Gaston couldn't hurt Belle, not in the obvious, physical sense.

Words, however, could cut so much deeper than any knife. . . .

A few minutes passed till they came out again. Belle looked even paler than she had before. He thought she might be ill. A good servant, he immediately decided, didn't wait for his lady to signal him when she looked like that. If Gaston thought otherwise, there  _would_ be an apple tree in the garden. Rumplestiltskin hurried over to her. "My lady?" he asked.

"My lord Gaston and his friends will be leaving," Belle said. "Make sure their horses are made ready. Quickly."

Gaston, to his credit, looked concerned. Rumplestiltskin hesitated, wondering what had happened and if Gaston should be taught a lesson. But, Belle didn't seem angry with the oversized man. Slowly, Rumplestiltskin nodded. Now wasn't the time to ask what was wrong. He could continue playing his role.  For the moment.  And if Gaston wondered how Goodman Dove was already waiting at the front of the house with the horses saddled and ready to ride by the time they rounded up his men, he thought better of asking.

Belle, ever the proper lady no matter how much it was costing her, stood by as her guests mounted up. Gaston, took her hand (Rumplestiltskin gritted his teeth) and bowed over it. "You will think on what I said?" he asked Belle.

She nodded mutely. Gaston didn't look satisfied, but he accepted it. He got on his horse and rode away.

Belle managed to stand, straight and tall, till Gaston was out of sight. Then, she slumped, trembling from the effort. She looked ill and faint, Rumplestiltskin thought, taking her arm. It was proof of how exhausted she was that she let him do it and gripped him tight in return, hands digging into him as she leaned against him for support.

"Let me help you inside," he said, watching her anxiously. He didn't even try to get her up the stairs to her room (he wasn’t sure how she’d take that) or the library (surely, the room she felt safest in), heading for the parlor just off the main door.  The house was made to be pleasant and inviting, but he wondered if he shouldn't change it around, adding armaments and thick, defendable walls. This room felt too vulnerable and exposed with its large window facing the open road any visitors, wanted or not, would follow.

Slipping back into his real face—what Belle thought of as his real face—he helped her into a chair and poured her a glass of mild sherry. Brandy, he thought, even the weak brandies of the Marchlands, would be better for whatever shock she'd received.  _Uisge_ , with its strength and the familiar taste of home, would be best of all.

Yet, he'd seen how Belle had barely eaten anything. The last thing she needed was strong drink muddling her head, not when he needed to know if he should be looking for a loophole in his deal with Maurice and getting revenge on Gaston.

A little color began to come back into Belle's face as she sipped her drink. "He asked me to marry him," she said.

Rumplestiltskin stared at her. "What?" She couldn't mean—she  _didn't_ mean—

"Gaston. He asked me to marry him." She took another sip of the sherry. "He said it would be good for the Marchlands." Her voice was hollow, empty. "He says the people are cast adrift in this new world. They need a sense of being anchored, being safe. For the future lord to be married to Lord Maurice's daughter would go a long way to give them that. Or so Gaston said. Oh, that was another thing. He said Maurice would acknowledge me. Publicly. And Baelfire. Gaston said he would name him as his heir—heir presumptive, not heir apparent. Any child we have—or any child Gaston has, I suppose—" A child by another woman, she meant. She suggested Gaston cheating on her and putting his mistress' child in her son's place with a disturbing indifference. "—would have precedence." She contemplated this unknown, future usurper. "I don't know if that's a good thing or not. Gaston might forget Bae's bloodlines, but would anyone else? Or does it even matter? Would you let Baelfire near the Marchlands?"

She sounded almost hopeful, but hopeful for what? That he would let her go off with Gaston but not let her son go with her? "I—I don't—I've promised not to keep you and your son apart."

"But, you made a deal. With Maurice. Bae is your child, now, as much as mine."

"Do you—don't you  _want_  to keep him?"

Despite the sherry, Belle still looked wilted and drained. She shrugged miserably. "If I went with Gaston, if I took Bae. . . . I don't know. I can't imagine him happy in the Marchlands, not the way he's been here. Gaston can say what he likes, he won't ever love Bae. Even if he tries—And he won't try. It won't matter to him. Maurice . . . Maurice might love Bae," she said wistfully. "If he could just stop thinking of him as my husband's son, I think he could. Maybe he can love Gaston's heir. I don't know."

She shouldn't sound like this, Rumplestiltskin thought, as if having her father—her  _father—_ so much as care about her and her son was nothing more than a half-hoped dream. But, it was the resignation in her voice that terrified him. "You sound as if—are you thinking of  _marrying him?_ "

Another miserable shrug. "I don't know. It's—it's the honorable thing, isn't? If I could go back to our home village, the village where Rumplestiltskin and I lived, it's what they'd tell me to do, isn't it? For honor's sake."

Rumplestiltskin could think of a thousand things he might do to their old village for what they'd done to Belle but asking their advice on  _honor_ wasn't one of them. He tried to gather his wits. "Gaston had centuries to ask you, to adopt Bae. Instead, he let me take you both without a fight. Why would you trust him now?"

"Gaston is . . . honorable. By his own lights. If he marries me, he'll—he'll treat me as his wife. He—he wouldn't beat me. Or mistreat me. I suppose he'll even let me live my life alone once he's convinced we can't have children. He seems to think we could, but—but it's been years. Centuries. If I could have a child, surely—surely it would have happened by now?"

She was looking at a marriage  _hoping_ her husband would ignore her and set her aside,  _hoping_  he would give up any hope of having a child with her. And the best thing she could say about the bridegroom was that he wouldn't beat her. Rumplestiltskin had thought he was immune to headaches but he could feel one coming on as he tried to follow this.

But . . . a child.

_Oh, no._

He remembered his conversation with Maurice. He'd told Maurice how easy it would be to make sure he had a child if he remarried. Maurice had been drunk but not so drunk he couldn't remember what was said, it seemed.

Rumplestiltskin cursed himself, a long, silent string of words learned over three centuries of dark deals.

"It's possible," he said at last. "Sometimes, barrenness is hard to cure. But, yours . . . it would be easy for you to have child. If you wanted."

It was Belle's turn to stare. "Easy? But. . . ." Her expression changed. She looked at him with something between horror and disbelief. "You know. You know why I haven't—you  _know._ "

He heard the accusation in her words, as if he were responsible. Well, he was. All of this was because of how he'd failed her. "When I brought you in from the snow, I cast a spell. It showed old injuries as well as new ones. There was so much. . . ." He knelt down in front of her and touched her arm, gently circling a spot halfway between her wrist and her elbow. No, he shouldn't touch her, not like this. . . . But, Belle didn't shrink back from him. "You broke your arm right here as a small child. Seven, I would think. Other injuries. . . . If I could kill Jones again for you, I would. I'll try to track down his skull if you want and make it into a goblet for you so you can spit into it each morning. I'll make his bones into a chamber pot and give them to a diarrheatic Ogre. I'm sorry. There was so much." So many horrors suddenly made clear. And he'd been blind to all of them. This small horror, if that's what it was, had almost passed by unnoticed. "I barely gave it any thought. You were dying, and I. . . . If I thought about it at all, I thought you knew. It's a foul tasting potion. Someone—whoever gave it to you might have lied about what it was for; but it has a bitter, oily taste. It would have been thick and black. You would have had to drink about a third of a cup, if they measured it properly." He didn't mention all the things that could go wrong if it wasn't measured properly, from cramps to death. It hadn't happened. Whoever gave it to her knew what they were about, thank the gods.

". . . . Smee," Belle said. "It was after I was brought on Jones' ship. He—he sent me below deck when I—I wouldn't. . . . And, then, he sent for me again. Smee gave me medicine for . . . for everything." Rumplestiltskin thought he'd begun learning some of the meanings that hid in what Belle said and didn't say. Long pauses, he thought, covered horrors, things that hurt her even to remember—or hurt her to fight not to remember, the way she did so painfully. "Smee even had a tub, a small hip-bath, filled up so I could—so could clean off all the . . . so I could clean off. It was salt water. It stung." It stung. An odd thing to remember when salt water would have been all there was for bathing at sea, something Belle would have grown used to over the years. Unless it had stung very badly, the way cuts and wounds did when salt got into them.

Belle went on. "I didn't mind. I was just so—so glad. . . . But, he gave me something. Like you described. It was more bitter than vinegar and tasted of rotting fish. Would that be it?"

"They must have used fish oil. Oil's essential, but it doesn't matter what kind. I'm surprised, though. It's vile enough without that." Rumplestiltskin resisted the urge to change the subject and go off on the finer points of potion-making, much as he might love the distraction right now. He was like Belle that way, trying not to think of horrors. "He didn't tell you what it was?"

"I—I don't know. He might have. I wasn't—I wasn't following much of what—I knew I had to—I knew Jones was waiting, and I couldn't—Smee might have told me. I don't know. Then—then all the time with Gaston, I  _couldn't?_ " The shock and pain in her eyes reminded him of soldiers in the Ogre War when they realized they were nothing more than cannon fodder, raw meat thrown into the grinder in hopes of slowing the enemy down but with no hope of survival or victory. Betrayed, he thought. She looked betrayed.

Had Jones been the sort of man to want the child if his mistress became pregnant? Doubtful. The man he'd met would have gotten rid of anything that stood between him and his personal pleasures. Rumplestiltskin knew something about the ugly, bloody ways that could be done. The potion Smee had given Belle, for example. It would also cause a child to miscarry but, unless taken very early in the pregnancy, could lead to hemorrhaging and death.

Gods, if Smee hadn't given it to her then—if he'd waited till Jones had gotten her with child—

He had to stop thinking of such things, how many different ways Belle could have died without him ever knowing what had happened to her. It would have been worse than Morraine, he thought. At least, he had known when she died. And he had been able to track down her killers and give her some kind of justice—he had known she needed and  _deserved_ justice. If Jones had killed Belle, the pirate would have thrown her corpse into the sea and never given her another thought. Rumplestiltskin would never have heard a word of it.

The man Rumplestiltskin had met had never forgiven Belle for managing to escape him along with her son. If, instead, he'd killed her—or driven her to kill herself—Rumplestiltskin had no doubt he'd have forgotten her before the week was out. Jones  _might_  have managed to remember her long enough for some maudlin tale when Rumplestiltskin questioned him, something that cast the captain as noble, grief-stricken lover. More likely, he would have shrugged and, said it was Belle's fault, and moved on to more interesting subjects (like himself).

And Rumplestiltskin, fool that he was back then, would never have known it for a lie.

"No, you couldn't have a child," Rumplestiltskin said. "Not then. I'm sorry."

"Not . . . then?" The little color that had come into Belle's face drained away. "Now?"

And here was another truth that sounded too much like a betrayal, one he couldn't escape the blame for. "The medicine I gave you, the sun-flowers, it nullified the other." He thought about explaining the way it worked, how the sun-flowers had burnt up and consumed the potion. . . . No. Enough hiding behind words. Belle wanted the bare, simple truth. He gave it to her. "Yes, you can have a child, now."

"Gaston's child." She might have been discussing a demon, the way she said it. "Then . . . then it doesn't matter. If Bae comes with me or not. There'd be another heir, wouldn't there?"

"Belle, you can't be thinking of marrying him! He doesn't love you. He doesn't even understand you." The man had taken Belle to his bed and  _used_ her, never seeing how that was killing something inside her. "And you can't be thinking of leaving Bae. He needs you. He—"

Belle shook her head. "He doesn't," she whispered. "My lord, you know he doesn't. I'm—you know what I am, what I've been. I'm not—not  _fit_ —to be near a child. He deserves better. And you can give him that. You  _are_  giving him that. He doesn't need me."

"Belle—"

"I'm a whore," she said softly. The word had no particular bite. She might have been discussing the chance of rain or asking if he thought it would be better to serve turnips or potatoes with dinner. "What child should be raised by a whore?"

"You're not—"

"I am." Her voice was calm, relentless. "There was a judge. I forget the name of the town, but he was a very honorable man. He ruled on it, did you know? Jones' men had grabbed a young girl in one of the ports. Her grandfather came to try and make Jones give her back. He thought the men must have acted without Jones knowledge and that he could appeal to his honor. Jones challenged him to a duel instead. He threw a sword at the old man's feet and, when he reached to pick it up, Jones ran him through before he even touched the hilt.

"The girl, her name was Verna, was in hysterics. She was ready to throw herself overboard once we were at sea and they let her up on deck. I—" Belle closed her eyes at a terrible memory, the crime she'd committed. "I convinced her to live, to endure till we made port. I managed—" There was one of those pauses, and Rumplestiltskin wondered how many nightmares were hidden under the word  _managed._ "—I managed to get her to the town hall, to make an accusation against Jones for murder.

"The judge brought Jones in and—and Jones and his men testified that we were whores. It was true." She looked at him earnestly, wanting him to understand  _this was true._ "When Jones—when he first brought me onboard, he told me—he told me what he wanted from me. And I said no." There was a glint of gallows humor in her eyes. "Screamed it, really." Belle shook her head. It hit him that what amused her about the memory was that she'd thought refusing Jones would make a difference. "So, he said, if I was too good to sleep with him I could—I could be with the crew. I—I—It was  _three days._ " Her calm wavered. Belle sounded like a child, he thought, a child facing horrors she still didn't understand. For a moment, she looked at him with empty confusion, her eyes begging him to explain. And, then, she went on with her story _._  "There were over twenty of them," she said quietly. "They drew straws—That—that was the worst thing about it. They were so  _organized_  about it all. I remember one of them drawing a straw and laughing because someone else would have to take his shift while he—while he had his turn. They—they had games they played. You could tell how often they did it. Only, they'd say things. 'Don't bruise her face. The captain won't like it.' So, you see, I had some protection. There were some things they—they wouldn't do. And—and I'd been married. That girl. It was the first time she'd ever—she'd ever—and she had none of the protection I did. The judge could  _see_  what they'd done to her. Her face—he could  _see_  it.

"But, they'd given her coins. Or said they had. Smee and I, we had to make her eat. She couldn't hold a piece of bread without our help. How could she have taken any money from them?

"But, I had." She said it indifferently. "After—after Jones asked me again, him or the crew. And I—I chose him. He made them pay me for—for 'the privilege of using the captain's woman.' That's what he called it. And Smee told me to keep the coins because—because there were things Baelfire would need.

"So, we were whores. And whores can't testify against honorable men. The judge—the judge told me I'd wasted his time and been—been mutinous. For speaking against the captain and the man who—who owned my debtor's bond. Then, he apologized to Jones and told him to punish me as he saw fit. Oh, and he levelled a fine against me, money I owed Jones for dragging an honorable man into court on—on false pretenses. He drew up the papers and added it to the bond I owed.

"Jones—Jones had me flogged after that. Till I passed out. I remember—I remember waking up in his cabin and—and  _hurting_. Not just from the flogging. It—it always excited him. Seeing people hurt. That time was the worst. But, it was always the same when—when—The other times, they stopped sooner. I was awake when—I was awake. I think—I think they had a better feeling for how much I could take.

"But, the girl. If I'd just told her to run away. If I'd given her some of the money I had. Her home wasn't far, just a few miles up the coast. Jones wouldn't have bothered going after her. It was only because he had to go to the judge that he was angry, and he took most of that out on me.

"But, she threw herself overboard." The calm Belle had managed to keep, telling him these things as if they'd happened to someone else, as if they didn't matter, finally broke. She was crying. "They let her up on deck again once we were out at sea. And she drowned herself. I was still unconscious when it happened. Jones told me later. He told me it was what my—what my interference had done." Tears were pouring down her face.

Rumplestiltskin put his arms around her, and she let him. She returned his embrace, sobbing like a child.

"Belle. . . ." He tried to find words to make this terrible pain go away—his pain or her pain. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It hurt," she cried. "I just want it to stop hurting. And it  _won't._ "

Words poured out of her. She told him what Jones men had done to her during those three days, what Jones did after, what happened when he shared her with other men.

A purely selfish part of Rumplestiltskin wanted her to stop. He wanted to cover her mouth and not hear these things. He wanted to cower and hide from so much truth.

Instead, he held her, pretending he was stronger than he was, trying to pretend he could protect her from her memories when all he could do was hold her and tell her over and over again how sorry he was, knowing how he had failed her.

 


	19. Out of the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple tries to comfort Belle.

The Dark One's arms closed around Belle and held her tight as she sobbed, words tumbling out of her. Humiliations, cruelties, nightmares she had tried to block out for years—centuries—came rushing out in a torrent she seemed powerless to stop.

All the while, she kept waiting for the Dark One to tell her enough, to hold her tongue and stop making up lies or puffing up her small troubles, her justified punishments. Instead, he held her, his arms closing around her as if he could block out the world, keeping her safe from—from everything.

Belle had forgotten what it was like to be held like this, to be held tight in an embrace giving comfort and safety, demanding nothing in return. She had forgotten what it was like to hunger for touch like this, to  _crave_ it.

Not since Rumplestiltskin went to war.

There had been something hot and moist against her neck. She'd barely noticed as she spoke. Now, finally, shakily drawing to a close, she touched it curiously, drawing back a little from the Dark One as she did. That was when she saw his eyes. They were full of tears with wet track down his face, making the scales glitter. That was what had been falling against her skin.

For a moment, as she drew back, she saw his expression change. Grief became worry. He was afraid he'd done something wrong, that he'd hurt her. She let her fingertips brush against his cheek, wonderingly.

"Why?" Belle asked.

His face crumpled. She'd hurt him—without meaning to, without even knowing she could.

"You shouldn't cry over this. You know you shouldn't. I  _agreed_  to what Jones wanted. Everything that happened, I agreed to."

The Dark One shifted from grief to anger—more anger than she'd seen in him since All Soul's Night. No, angrier than that, much angrier. "No," he growled. "You didn't.

"I've made deals for centuries, Belle. Torturing someone till she agrees to your terms isn't a  _choice_ , any more than holding a knife to her throat and telling her to agree to a deal or see her blood spilled all over the floor would be a choice. That's what Jones did to you."

"If I didn't make a choice, then what did I do?" Belle asked, surprised at the heat in her voice. No, she mustn't be angry. She'd learned what happened when she got angry. And she wasn't even sure what she had to be angry about.

But, the Dark One looked properly chastised, as if he understood what upset her even when she didn't. "You made many choices," he said. "Terrible ones." He took her hand and kissed the back of it with an intensity that awed her, like a faithful vassal to his liege. "You chose to save Baelfire. No matter the cost. You tried to save that girl and give her justice, despite the risk. You did it after seeing Jones murder a man in cold blood without even the pretense of honor."

"No," Belle said, shaking her head. "No. I told you—I told you what I was—what I  _am_. I—"

"You're not. And, even if you were, Jones held your servant's bond. What did that make  _him?_  Whatever benighted land that judge lived in, what did their law say about pimps and procurers holding the servant bonds of honorable women?"

"I wasn't—I'm not—"

"You are. You are the most honorable woman I have ever known. And the bravest. I'm the Dark One, Belle—the  _Dark One._  There are kings and emperors who live in terror of me. With cause. They wouldn't dream of defying me. You've done it how many times? From the day you first saw me. In a room full of knights and nobles, you were the only one who would stand up to me.  To protect your son.

"Belle, you don't need Gaston to have an honorable name. I could make you a queen, if you liked. An empress. I—I would tell the world you are my liege lady and I am nothing but your servant, if you wished."

Belle gave a shaky laugh in spite of herself.

"I  _would_ ," the Dark One insisted. He sounded like Bae when he argued between yawns that he wasn't tired.

She laughed again, though it sounded a little like a sob, and managed a smile. "You would make a terrible servant. Don't deny it."

He looked affronted. "Didn't I make an excellent servant today? I didn't even poison that fool, Henri. He didn't have so much as a stomachache."

"Not poisoning the guests is a good quality in a servant," Belle agreed. "But, we both know you only managed it because you enjoyed putting one over on them. And because it was only for half an afternoon. If you'd had to do it for a full day, I suppose they'd have been toads before it was over."

He put his hand to his heart. "You  _wound_ me, Belle. I can be much more creative than  _toads._ "

She laughed again, but it turned into a sob. The Dark One pulled her close. "I'm sorry, Belle. I'm so sorry."

"I just want it to stop," she whispered. "I want the pain to go away, but it only gets worse."

"When someone recovers from freezing—someone who doesn't have sun-flowers or a magic fleece—it's painful. When the blood comes back into a frozen limb, it feels like pins and needles. Not a tingling feeling. Like hundreds of pins and needles jabbing into you— _deep_ into you. But, despite the pain, it's a good sign. It means the limb isn't dead. It means life is coming back, even if it does hurt. And it gets better. I know it hurts now but, I promise you, Belle, it gets better."

"How can you know?"

"I . . .  lived for fourteen years in a village where people spat when they heard my name.” His voice was soft and low.  Belle remembered the story he had told her about his crushed leg and the wife who had despised and left him, taking their children with her. 

 _If only Rumplestiltskin had lived,_ Belle thought.  She could have endured anything—hateful villagers, poverty, and fear of the Ogre Wars—if only he had been there beside her.

“I was a cripple,” the Dark One said. “And people I'd thought of as friends and neighbors laughed when they knocked me down. There were people I loved who. . . . I failed. I thought those wounds would never heal, but time . . . eases them.” He looked at her earnestly.  “It will ease yours, if you give it a chance. And I will do what I can to help it, if you let me."

Belle got up, pushing him away and walking to the far side of the room. Looking out the window. In the back, where the gardens were, she saw how the Dark One had carefully arranged the trees and hedges at the borders. Even from the library, the snowy mountains were only a bit of scenery, far off in the distance. But, she could see the road from here.  She could see where the frail springtime he'd created ended, the snows lining the path Gaston had taken. This sheltered place the Dark One had given her was nothing more than a flicker of warmth in a great sea of cold and ice.

Belle had tried to believe in warmth before. It always betrayed her.

"Why?" she demanded, not turning to look at him, head bowed and arms wrapped around herself as though she were already fighting off the cold. "Why should it matter to you?"

He was silent so long, she had to turn and face him. She didn't know what she expected to see. Anger, perhaps. She could understand anger. She could trust it. It was always so simple and direct, even when it tried to disguise itself, even when it claimed to be something else. Belle thought of Jones. His anger had almost been boring, really, towards the end. It was predictable, even in its capriciousness. Its wants were so simple: pain, humiliation, power.

The kindness and grief in the Dark One's eyes unnerved her. What did kindness and grief want from her? What could she give them?

The Dark One searched her face with equal desperation, as if he were trying to find words she would understand. He looked past her, towards some books on the wall.  This might be the parlor, but he’d said large, leather tomes always gave a room gravitas when he’d put them there.  Belle had agreed.

Inspiration seemed to hit him. He walked past her, not seeing—or pretending not to see—how she shrank back from him (she didn’t know herself why she shrank back except she didn’t know how to face his eyes).  He pulled a book off the shelf. The writing on the cover looked like Danaan but Belle hadn't been able to make sense of the language when she'd looked through it.

"This book is from another world," he told her. "An odd one, by all accounts. I'd almost forgotten it till we were building this house. This poem—I remembered this poem and thought of you." He opened the book and began to translate.

It was more of a story than a poem, at least the way he read it. There was a man, Meader living somewhere in the far north. A kind of bear the Dark One called a silverback had attacked Meader's cabin in the woods, stealing meat.

"Silverbacks are dark," the Dark One said. "With bits of gray. It gives them a grizzled look. They can weigh three times as much as the bears you know. When they're angered, nothing short of death will stop them."

He went on with the tale, how the bear tried to break into the cabin and Meader waited all night, weapons drawn, his bow at the ready. The bear left with the dawn only to come back at evening. Meader shot it and ran.

" _A real storm of a run,_ " the Dark One read. " _A great bear, Meader says,_  
Even when he's been hit in the heart, will keep running  
Until he falls down."

He glanced at Belle as he read that part. His sad, pained eyes lingered over her chest, just where her own heart would be. She remembered the stories she'd heard about wizards and witches, that they could read hearts. Whatever secrets the Dark One did or didn't see, he went on. Long after, when Meader must have hoped the bear had died, he went back and found it, trying to understand why it had attacked the way it did, without fear of men.

" _And then he understood_  
What lay behind the bear's odd behavior:  
Half of the beast's jaw was eaten away by an abscess, and caries.  
Toothache, for years. An ache without comprehensible reason,  
Which often drives us to senseless action  
And gives us blind courage. We have nothing to lose,  
We come out of the forest, and not always with the hope  
That we will be cured by some dentist from heaven."

He closed the book, looking down at it, he said. "I love the beauty of your heart and soul, your bravery and courage." He gave a sad sigh, as if he knew she wouldn't believe him. But, he looked at her, eyes intent. "I know that you have trouble seeing who you are. So I'm going to tell you. You are a hero who saved your son. When you should have been blind to anything but your own pain, you could see a stranger's suffering and risk your life to save her. You're a beautiful woman who reaches out to others and loves them even when the ugliness of the world should make it impossible. _You love them_.” His voice was full of quiet passion, as if willing her to hear the truth of his words.  “You really, really love them. You find light in the darkness. And, when it's not there, you create it."

He fixed his strange, lizard's eyes on her. Their yellow streaks burned, like the winter sun at dawn. "You make me want to go back—back to the best version of me. And that never happened before. So when you look in the mirror and you don't know who you are,  _that's_  who you are. Thank you, Belle.

"And, about Gaston," he added. "Your mother, more than anything else, wanted you to marry someone kind. She could have taken you back to the Marchlands and married you off to a king—or to the king's second cousin once removed, so Maurice says. Better than Gaston, at any rate.

"But, she wanted you to marry someone—someone kind." He paused. "I'm a monster, Belle. You—you know how little kindness there is in me. But . . . sometimes, it's what we don't have that we value most. I—I wish I had more kindness to give you. Because, more than anything, that's what you deserve—more than deserve, it's what you  _need._  This ache inside you, it can be healed. I may not have much to offer you, but I can promise you that

"If—if you think your mother was right, if you—if you're  _glad_  your first husband was a kind man—then, please, don't marry Gaston. . Don't—don't let the pain drive you to madness."

X

Rumplestiltskin was not sure if he had spoken too much or too little. He didn't even know if he any of what he'd said had been the right thing to say.

The words that kept burning on the tip of his tongue, that he wanted to say more than anything else, were, "I'm your husband," but they wouldn't come out.

Maybe it was the way Belle still shrank from him. Maybe it was because he still didn't trust himself not to hurt her. Her words, everything she'd told him, they were like blood pouring from wounds.

For Belle, the man he'd once been was her memory of kindness. He was a coward, he always had been, but he didn't know how to take that away from her—not without sending her running into Gaston's arms. Or worse.

Because, he'd seen the pain eating away at Belle.  He could imagine her very easily slipping into something even more self-destructive than a life with Gaston.

Belle's stomach chose that moment to rumble. She reddened.

"You must be starving," Rumplestiltskin said. A mundane problem, hunger, one he was too glad to grab hold of. "Have you eaten anything today? Besides the two bites I saw at the table?"

Belle shook her head. "Do you . . . do you suppose Goodwoman Dove has anything left in the kitchen?"

Rumplestiltskin snorted. "She cooked enough to feed an army. I'm sure she does. You'll feel better with something inside you."

Belle nodded absently. "That would be good and . . . not tonight. I'm too tired tonight. But, tomorrow. I'll send a message to Gaston. I—I should say it to his face. We'll have to have him come back again. But, I know what answer to give him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Rumplestiltskin reads is "A Story" by Czeslaw Milosz from his Collected Poems. I made a few changes. The bear Rumple calls a silverback is a grizzly (he's translating and I didn't want to try and figure out if there are grizzlies in the Enchanted Forest. I just assumed Rumple knew a similar animal with a different name). In the poem, Rumple just calls it a "great bear." I thought about changing the word dentist, but couldn't think of a good substitute.
> 
> While Milosz was Polish, he also lived in the U.S. and France. I believe he wrote this poem in English, though I'm not 100% sure. For the story, however, I assumed Rumple was translating from Polish. He's a man of many hidden gifts.
> 
> The Cyrillic alphabet is derived from the Greek alphabet. The (more or less) Greek alphabet of Belle's world is called Danaan.


	20. Lies and Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle answers Gaston's question.

_You're a servant, not a sacrifice_ , the Dark One had once told Belle. Yet, that was exactly what she felt like as she prepared for her meeting with Gaston, like a maiden in an ancient tale being led up some narrow path to be thrown into the endless void—or falling into the dark hold of a ship. . . .

The Dark One had brought her the dress he'd made out of nettles and gold, the one he said had power to protect her. He'd reminded her, too, of the protections he'd put on the house and grounds. His nervousness, she thought, was almost as bad as her own. But, she'd needed him not to be here today, not for this. She wanted someone she could lean on, but this was between her and Gaston. What needed to be done, what needed to be said, the Dark One had no part in.

Perhaps she should have sent Bae to the castle with him. Except for those very rare times when Gaston decided to pretend to be fatherly and interrogate Bae about his studies, she'd always sent her son away when Gaston wanted her company. Jones, thank the gods, had always let her send Bae off with Smee when he ordered her to join him.

A mistress sent her child away when she met with her protector. A whore or—or whatever it was she'd been—sent him where he wouldn't have to see what was done to her.

Whatever she was, whatever Gaston thought she was, she did not need to send her son into hiding. Not this time.

Besides, Bae might not like Gaston but he wanted to see the horses (the Doves had already been warned to make sure he didn't get too close to Gaston's war stallion or to let him in the stables alone).

She turned her attention back to the dress. It was actually a skirt and matching vest of a robin's egg blue, though both had been turned to pitch at the Dark One's touch. He had looked at it wistfully—that was the only word for his expression, wistful—for a moment before changing it, running his fingers along the cloth. The skirt was meant to swirl a few inches above her ankles. An easy dress to work in, she'd thought, though it would have been too pretty to risk getting dirty in the garden or stained helping Rumplestiltskin make dyes back in her village days. An easy dress to dance in if she had worn it to the fair in Longbourne to catch a certain, shy weaver's eye. . . .

Then, the Dark One added a ruffle to the hem to give it length and dignity. Belle wore a somber, long-sleeved blouse of black silk beneath the vest. Belle didn't mind its modest cut, but she found herself wishing its collar would plunge more in back and show her scars. Gaston liked to pretend they weren't there. Belle wanted to force him to look at them, to ask him what he thought when he saw them, if he agreed with the Dark One about what kind of man Jones had been.

But, that would hardly be befitting a widow's dignity, and she meant to be dignified. Besides, she thought she already knew his answer.

Belle concentrated on fixing her hair, weaving a black ribbon through it. Act the great lady, she reminded herself, and people often found it hard to remember you weren't.

Except she was. She was chatelaine of this manor. Her mother and aunt were daughters of a great house—greater and older than Lord Maurice’.  They had been guardians of magic the Dark One himself had taken centuries to unravel; and she was their heir. The most powerful (in his own estimation) wizard in the world had offered to call her his liege (and, though she could imagine how long that would last, she was sure he would  _try_ ). This place was hers, not Gaston's. He came as  _her_  petitioner.

She kept repeating that to herself, hoping she would start to believe it and not feel as if she were staring into the abyss.

Belle looked at her hair in satisfaction, all bound up on top of her head, not so much as a strand touching her neck. If any of her scars _did_  peep above the collar, there would be nothing to hide them. She adjusted her locket and added two earrings of jet. Then, she went down to wait for her suitor.

This time, when Gaston rode up, he left his friends behind. Only LeFou accompanied him, driving a gig. When Gaston had dismounted and made a very proper bow to Belle, he signaled LeFou, who came running with two large baskets filled with gifts. "A return for your generous hospitality," Gaston said.

Food and wine were traditional gifts after eating at another's table. Living in a small village, Belle would have found it hard to think of such gifts ever being ostentatious.  She’d known what hunger meant, but she hadn’t known about delicacies brought from half a world away and worth more than their weight in gold.  Life in Maurice's court had taught her that much. By those lights, Belle had to admit Gaston had done well.

The first basket held dried oranges and lemons, truffles, and rare spices, like the bundle of cinnamon sticks she saw sticking out in the back and a jar of saffron beside it. He'd also brought a selection of the Marchlands' fine cheeses and dried venison. What at first appeared to be a more common gift, a large ham, would be from a wild boar, if Belle knew Gaston. It was also encrusted with a fortune in pepper. These were kingly offerings.

However, it was the small bunch of fresh apples that made Belle feel more kindly towards him. Fresh fruits or vegetables from greenhouses were always impressive in winter, all the more so since Gaston must have brought them from the Marchlands.  Belle doubted the nearby village hid any greenhouses.  He must have brought them from home.  Though he couldn’t have known it, they were one of the few fresh fruits that didn't grow in her garden.  More importantly, they were one of Bae's favorites (though the Dark One said he distrusted them). It was . . . sweet of Gaston to notice that. If he'd noticed that.  Maybe he’d just chosen what he knew wouldn’t spoil before he got here. 

Whatever his reasons, Gaston had clearly come prepared for a second meeting. Or maybe he'd just planned for a celebratory feast after she threw herself into his arms and said yes. . . . Belle pushed back the bitter thought. It wouldn't help here.  She looked at the other basket instead.

There were bottles of old wine and even older brandy. Belle recognized the work of some of the finest vineyards and distilleries in the south, from beyond Maurice’ holdings.  Did those vineyards still exist?  Had they been rebuilt in the long years since the war?  What if she was looking at the last wine and brandy to ever come from those lands?  She felt a small pang, calculating the worth of these gifts. They were too dear for him to be giving to her.

"You're too kind, Gaston—" she began.

"Nonsense," he said, grinning. He signaled LeFou to take them inside. Belle caught a glimpse of Bae peeking out from the stables. She thought he looked disappointed to see the apples vanish into the house. "You're the most beautiful woman between the mountains and the Marchlands. Don't you deserve the best?"

She smiled, murmuring more thanks, knowing how impossible it was to argue with him when he was so pleased with himself. Belle went inside with Gaston. He managed a few comments on the tapestries and paintings. "But, why that strange fleece?" he asked, pointing to the orange-gold hide that hung near the wall. "It couldn't be a trophy from any great hunt, not unless you have more vicious sheep up here than we have down in the Marchlands."

Belle found the tranquil face she had always had to wear at court. "It's called the golden fleece. It was a prized possession of an ancient family," Belle said. "I'm told it has magic powers." She found she didn't care to explain to Gaston what those powers were or how she had learned of them.

He snorted. "I think it's called the golden fleece because someone cheated you out of whatever you paid for it.," He laughed at his own wit.

Habit made Belle force herself to smile, the way she always did at his attempts at humor. Besides, Gaston had a point. She had paid a high price to learn about the fleece. And yet. . . .

She thought about the Dark One, so carefully adjusting blankets and pillows around her as she recovered, always trying so hard to do it without touching her in any way that would make her afraid. She thought of Bae, running his hand through the thick wool as he told her how  _he_  had been the one to fetch the fleece that saved her. The pride in his voice hadn't hidden the fear lurking beneath as he told her how sick and pale she'd looked. Belle had praised him, calling him her little hero. But, really, she was trying to assure him that the world wasn't a terrifying place, that he could stop it from tearing away everything he loved in a heartbeat (it was a lie, as she well knew, but there were some lies children needed to hear).

"I may have paid more than I should have," Belle told him. "But, I don't think I was cheated."

And, again out of habit, she found herself smiling at Gaston, a flirtatious smile that suggested her words hid a secret she might share in time, not a barb because of what he would never understand.

No, she wasn't Gaston's mistress anymore. She didn't have to act that part and she wouldn't. But, she wouldn't be rude or undignified, either. "Lunch isn't ready, yet," she told him changing the subject. "Would you care to walk around the gardens? It will be pleasant after your trip through the snow."

"That would be good," Gaston said. He grinned. It was the smile of a man far too sure of himself. "And we can talk over what you . . . wanted to discuss."

Belle gritted her teeth. Gaston had been spending too much time with Henri, making that sound like some kind of innuendo. What  _she_  wanted to discuss, as if _she_ were propositioning _him_. As if he didn't even need to hear her answer because he was already certain he knew it.

Belle took a calming breath as they walked. Then another. She reminded herself what anger had cost her in the past. Voice icy calm, she asked him, "When the Dark One made his deal and came for my son, what did you think he was going to do with him?"

"Belle, that was a long time ago. The curse hadn't even been broken—"

"But, what did you  _think?_ "

"I . . ." Gaston looked slightly abashed, like a man caught in small, slightly awkward lapse. "I thought he would kill him. Is that what you want me to say? Maybe he wanted him as an ingredient in a potion. He's some kind of demon. Maybe he wanted to eat him. Or maybe he wanted a catamite. I don't know."

Belle closed her eyes. It's what she'd expected him to say, if he was honest. But, to  _hear_ him say it like that, as if it didn't even matter? "That's what you thought. And you did nothing to stop it?"

Gaston scowled. "I tried to save you from him, didn't I? If that's what he'd wanted Bae for, what good would it do for you to trot along to his execution? Did you think you could stop it?"

Belle's voice grew even colder. "I could have been there with him. I could have let him know he wasn't  _abandoned_. If—if he died or—or if the Dark One had wanted—wanted a child to—to abuse, at least he wouldn't have had to face it alone."

Gaston rolled his eyes. "You read too many romances, Belle. That's not real life. Real life is about hard choices, the kind you've never had to make. Lord Maurice—our liege lord, in case you forgot—decided it was better to sacrifice one child rather than the whole of the Marchlands. He didn't  _ask_ our opinion. He gave orders. And I obeyed him. As was my duty. You didn't."

"You're saying I was . . . mutinous." Belle's voice sounded strange in her own ears, distant and far away.

Gaston must have thought she sounded contrite. "You're a woman, Belle," he said kindly. "No one expects you to think of these things. But, you should have listened to me. And to Maurice. We know what's good for you."

"Maurice," Belle whispered. "Gaston, when did you—when did you  _know_  Maurice was my father? Not just suspect it but  _know?_ "

Gaston looked enlightened. "Is that why you think I'm asking you to marry me now, Belle? It's not. I've always known. When Maurice first asked me to take you as my companion, he explained everything to me. He wanted a child of his blood to follow after him, of course, but he wanted me to know my position was secure as far as he was concerned."

He'd known. He'd always known. And Maurice had trusted him with the knowledge when he wouldn't trust her. "I . . . don't understand. What do you mean, secure?"

"Well, he wasn't going to put you in my place, was he?" He gave her a patronizing smile. "It wasn't just sentimentality. Things weren't easy in the Marchlands after Maurice's sons died. The people had accepted me, and I'd tried to live up to my duty. We had a—a feeling of stability. Putting an unknown heir no one had heard of in my place, even if you hadn't been, well, you know, that could have upset everything."

 _Well, you know._  Belle almost wished she was having this conversation with Henri. He might be crude and vulgar, but he'd have come up with something better to call her than "well, you know."

"Yes," she told him. "I know."

Gaston looked at her earnestly. "You understand he didn't dare acknowledge you before this, don't you? He couldn't give you a position that would make you a target for plots—or make your boy a target. There are plenty of people who would have used him as a puppet ruler, if they could.

"But, that doesn't matter now." He smiled at her. If she hadn't felt numb inside, she might have thought it was a dazzling smile. "You'll be lady of the Marchlands. We'll have sons of our own to rule after us. It will be for the best. You'll see."

"Gaston, I won't marry you."

He didn't look angry, only puzzled. "What do you mean? Of course, you will. Didn't you believe me about Maurice? I told you, he supports it. He'll acknowledge you, and—"

"Gaston, I don't care if Maurice acknowledges me or not." A lie. A huge lie. But, she wouldn't buy Maurice's acknowledgement at Gaston's price. "I'm  _happy._  Or . . . I'm beginning to be. I don't want to be lady of the Marchlands. I want to—to live quietly. I—I want to spend my days walking in the sun and watching over Bae. I want to not have to worry about anything except whether he's well and whether my fruit trees are ready to harvest."

Gaston grimaced. "You're not a peasant any more, Belle. Stop thinking like one."

"You think noblewomen never want to live quietly and not be troubled?"

"Noblewomen— _true_  noblewomen—know their duty. The Marchlands need you to marry me."

 _Then the Marchlands can ask me themselves._ "The Marchlands need  _you_  to marry well. You could marry royalty, Gaston, a  _princess_. Think of the alliance that would mean. And think about your heirs. They might even be kings, someday. The rulers in these lands all respect the Dark One. Once they know he's our ally—"

Gaston laughed. "You are so  _naïve_ , Belle. Do you think that demon would help me to a good marriage? Everything he's done, he's done for himself."

"What do you mean? He saved us, Gaston. He broke our curse. He's given us food and supplies. He's protecting us from our enemies—"

" _His_  enemies. Belle, are you really this stupid? Don't you see what he wants? What he's wanted from the start?"

Bae. He'd wanted Bae, the child he hoped could take his lost foster-daughter's place, not whatever demon-deal Gaston was imagining. "He wanted a child, a son."

But, Gaston nodded, as though she'd proved his point. "Exactly. He bargained for  _your_  son, Maurice's grandson, a child with the bloodlines to claim the Marchlands—or have his guardian claim them for him."

"You think he wants the Marchlands?" Belle said incredulously. The Dark One could barely be bothered with the village down the road from his castle. He made sure anyone wanting to do business with him knew to not to make trouble there—some of them, he'd admitted, needed more convincing than others. But, besides that, he let them take care of themselves. "Gaston, the Dark One got tired of ordering one servant around. What would he do with an entire barony?"

"What will he do? He's already started, Belle. You've said yourself, he's tutoring the boy. He's teaching him swordfights and tactics. He's preparing him to rule."

Yes, the Dark One taught Bae swordfighting, if pretending to die dramatically when Bae won counted as a lesson. As for tactics . . . Belle tried to remember.  _Be fair,_ she told herself. And not just fair. She'd barely spoken to anyone besides the Dark One and Bae these past months. There were the Doves, of course, but they knew nothing about the south and its politics. And they were unshakably loyal to the Dark One.

She thought over what she'd seen. Teach Bae tactics? The Dark One had started to teach him chess, along with other games. She supposed that might be the beginning of tactics. And he read to him from history books, adding quite a few comments of his own—especially when he'd played a part in events. But, even then, the Dark One's interest was in why people—individuals—did what they did. He became bored discussing kingdoms and affairs of state.

And, she'd seen the way he did things with Bae, the way he played with him and carried him up to bed when he'd fallen asleep. "No, Gaston. I don't understand it, but he loves Bae. He's not trying to make a pawn out of him."

Gaston was losing patience with her. "If he wanted a child, he hardly had to make a deal with Maurice. There are hundreds of orphans in the Marchlands alone. Or he could have just found a woman who was willing to put up with claws and scales. Maybe a blind one." He gave her a nasty look. "Or you. Is that why you're arguing, Belle? Did he seduce you? Is all this—" He waved a hand, taking in the gardens and house, "—just payment for services rendered? Is this your price for the Marchlands?"

Belle stiffened. "Gaston, I think you should leave now. And you can take your gifts with you." She turned and began walking back to the house.

Gaston came after her. "Belle. . . ." He tried to catch her hand.

Belle pulled it away. "No, Gaston. You are— _were_ —a guest in my house. And I am no longer your companion. I won't be insulted by you here. And I won't listen to you insult my—Bae's—the man who has been a foster-father to my son."

"Belle—"

"He's been  _kind_  to me, Gaston," Belle said, wishing she could make him understand. "The way he's treated me, I don't believe he had other motives. But, even if he did, he's . . . been a friend."  _He never stood by and did nothing while a demon took away my son—nothing except to tell me not to make such a fuss over_ nothing.  _He's held me while I cried and told me—told me I'm better than I think I am. If he's done nothing but lie, then I still treasure the kindness of the lies he's told me._

 _And, if he_ did _want the Marchlands, maybe he'd do better by them than you would._

Gaston gave her a pitying look. "Belle, being a ruler, a good one, means having to make sacrifices. Maurice sent all three of his sons into battle, and none of them came back. He didn't ask more of Bae than he asked of them."

"They were grown men, Gaston, not a child of six. And he didn't  _ask_  anything of Bae. He sent guards into a child's room to drag him out of bed and give him to a monster—what he thought was a monster. And you agreed." No, she was letting her anger get the better of her. In a calmer voice, Belle said, "Gaston, how could I rule alongside you?" She gave him a whimsical, sardonic smile, so he could see she was laughing at herself, not him. It was an expression she'd perfected in the Marchlands when she needed to discuss something difficult with him. "We'd fight every moment. You'd want to be a widower before the week was out."

"Lady Rosamonde and Lord Maurice didn't always see eye to eye, but he—"

"—He sacrificed her, Gaston," Belle said, cold anger bubbling up inside of her again. "I know. I saw it happened."

They were back at the house. Despite everything, Belle found herself not wanting to part on bad terms. She tried one last time. "Gaston, you protected my son and me when we desperately needed it. I owe you more than I can ever say. But, I can't marry you—and you don't really want me to." She gave him her whimsical smile again. "Even if you don't know it yet."

Gaston shifted uncomfortably, but old habits still made him play the gentleman. He didn't stand in her way as she went in. "Belle," he said. "Sacrifices are  _necessary_. You—you need to understand that."

"We will have to agree to disagree, Gaston."

"Just know—I only did what I had to."

Belle felt a chill, though she didn't know why. "What you had to? What do you—?"

She stopped. She could see LeFou at the end of the hallway, was cowering against the wall, his eyes fixed on something lying on the floor of the front room. Belle had come closer to see what he was looking at.

A small figure lay on the polished wood. Lying near his hand, where it must have rolled away when he dropped it, was a large apple—the only fruit that didn't grow in her garden because the Dark One didn't trust them. . . .

Belle remembered being thrown into the dark hold of Jones' ship, not understanding what was going to happen to her, not understanding it even as it happened. She remembered the cold, empty feeling as Hordor read off the names of their village dead. She remembered finally passing out from the pain and blood as the cat-o-nine-tails tore into her back.

Calmly, as if none of this was real (perhaps it wasn't, how could it be?), Belle knelt down beside her son. Her fingers brushed against his wrist, then his throat, trying to feel the beat of his heart. She looked at his small chest, but it was still. She couldn't see him breathing. When she put the back of her hand up against his mouth, then his nose, there was no feeling of warm air against her skin.

Gaston walked up behind her. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Belle," he said. It was the same, vaguely regretful tone he'd used when the Dark One had first come for her son, so long ago. "I just did what needed to be done."


	21. So Much Blood in Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaston attempts to explain his actions.

Belle threw the fleece over Bae. The wool tingled under her fingers and its orange-red shifted, glinting gold.

Bae didn't move. He didn't start breathing. His face stayed pale as death.

Somewhere, very distant, she could hear Gaston and LeFou talking. Meaningless sounds, like monkeys chittering. But, Gaston's voice kept breaking across her in bits and pieces. He berated LeFou for letting Bae eat the fruit before he'd given a signal.

"It was supposed to look like an accident!"

"I thought he was in the stables. I  _saw_ him in the stables. I don't know how he got in behind me—!"

"You should have been watching him!" Gaston said.

Belle interrupted them, if only so she wouldn't have to listen to them anymore. "Bae is—was—a little boy," she said. Her voice sounded strange and far away, as though someone else were speaking with her mouth. Perhaps they were. It didn't feel as though she were the one saying this. "That's what little boys do. They get in where you least expect them and get into trouble."

She looked at Bae, trying to feel something besides emptiness. In that same, strange, dead voice, she asked, "You really thought no one would blame you? How did you think that would work?"

"M—Madame Belle?" LeFou asked. "Are you—are you well?"

Was she well.

The words echoed meaninglessly.  Why shouldn't she be well? Why shouldn't LeFou think she was well? Did he think she sounded upset?  Even to her own ears, she sounded as though she were making polite conversation about the weather when she could barely interest herself in the answers. A proper court lady. Maurice would be proud.  LeFou's master didn't see anything here that should concern her. Why should the servant?

"Did you mean to stand around while Bae ate your poison and then hide the apple?" Belle asked with that same indifference. "Or were you just hoping no one would connect it with you when Bae fell over de—"

  1.   _No_. She couldn't say that word. Couldn't think it. The moment she let herself think—No, this wasn't real. None of this was real.



Academic and detached, she went on. "Did you think the Dark One wouldn't realize it was you? Did you think he wouldn't take steps against you?"

Gaston shrugged. He showed no more feeling than Belle did. "The Dark One keeps his bargains. To the letter. I've learned that much about him. And his bargain with Maurice was clear. He won't harm him or his rightful heir. There's no other heir now but me. This is just a game to him. When he finds out he's lost this round, he'll get over it. If anything, he ought to respect the man who's beaten him."

Belle was dimly aware she had stood up. As if her body weren't her own, as if she were watching a puppet show and this was just another wooden doll somewhere far away with someone else pulling the strings. "You think that? You think it won't matter what you've done?"

Gaston shrugged again. "Why should it? You're sentimental, Belle. You've never understood men of the world. If it comes to that, you're the one he should be angry with. If you'd just agreed to marry me, none of this would have happened."

She heard Hordor telling her to be sensible. Jones was telling her it was her choice before he threw her into the hold of the ship. The judge was reprimanding her for disobeying her master. There was disappointment in Maurice's voice as he reminded her of the choices she'd made.

LeFou looked at her uneasily. "Master, we need to go. Give the Dark One time to calm down after he finds this. We—we need to get back to the Marchlands."

Gaston nodded. "You're right. Belle, get into the gig. You're going with us."

Ice. Belle thought of ice, thick layers of it over the rivers and lakes of the Frontlands, so thick you could drive a team of oxen pulling a fully loaded wagon across. Till it broke in the spring, cracking apart in the river floods with a sound like thunder.

"Go with you?"

"You can't stay here. You're no use to the Dark One without the boy, and I doubt you want to explain this mess to him. Besides, I told Maurice I'd bring you back. LeFou, hide the body somewhere they won't find it at first. Buy us some time. Stuff it in a cupboard or something. Belle, come along." He grabbed her by the arm.

Hordor grabbing her in her own home (telling her to give up Bae and let him die). Jones laughing as he picked her up only to throw her into darkness (Smee begging her not to worry as he tore Bae from her arms). Men laughing as they shoved her down against the wooden deck, the narrow bunks being too small for what they wanted to do (they'd joked about her milk-heavy breasts and dared each other to suck at them before spitting it back in her face). Gaston, telling her to get rid of Bae because he wanted to spend time with her. . . .

Belle twisted her arm free. "I'm not going with you."

Gaston looked surprised she'd broken away, as if he weren't sure how it had happened—or as if he hadn't expected her to resist. "Don't be stupid, Belle. If he  _is_  upset, who do you think will pay for it?" He lunged at her again.

Oh, gods, if only the Dark One would kill her when he saw this, if only he would let her die now Bae was—now Bae was—

Belle jumped back, letting Gaston grab at air. "He's not a monster like you, Gaston," she said, and the words hurt because they were true. He wouldn't kill her. And he wouldn't let her kill herself. "And, even if he were, I'd choose him over you. I'd let him tear me in pieces—" If only he would—if only—

"My Lord Gaston," LeFou begged. "Let's go. If she wants to stay here, let her." But, Gaston ignored him, making another grab at Belle.

Belle didn't duck this time. She grabbed the candelabra behind her and swung it as hard as she could against Gaston. " _Don't touch me!_ "

The candelabra never reached him. Instead, Gaston went flying back on his own, crashing into the wall.

He stared at her. "What. . . ?"

Belle stared back.

Nettles and gold. To protect her.

Spells on the house, so the Dark One said, to keep her safe. Her and Bae.

But, those spells had failed. Why?

Because of the bargain, because Gaston was Maurice's heir?

Because he'd gotten ahold of some kind of magic that the house was vulnerable to but the nettle dress protected her from?

Then why hadn't the Dark One given Bae the same protection?

 _No. Please, gods, no_.

Because he'd been trying to make it up to her, ever since the inn and the blizzard, he'd been doing everything he could to make her feel safe.

_Oh, gods, no, don't let Bae be dead because of me, because I was protected and he wasn't. Don't, do that to me. I beg you. Please._

The prayer wasn't enough. It felt wrong, too far from what she really wanted to say, too selfish and self-centered, too far from the truth in her heart.

_Please, I don't care why this has happened. I don't care if it's my fault or Gaston's. Just don't let Bae be dead. Let me die instead of him. Make it more horrible than Jones' death, more horrible than any torture any human being has ever suffered. Raise Jones from the dead and send me back to his ship. Let his men do whatever they want to me without rest. Let them think up new nightmares no one has ever imagined. Let me suffer for all eternity. Just don't let my son be dead._

Nothing changed. She was still safe. Still  _protected_.

"Protection," Belle said, the thoughts in her mind still not touching her voice. "The Dark One protected this place." She walked to where Gaston still lay sprawled against the wall, LeFou kneeling down by his side.

Gaston rubbed the back of his head and glared at her. "You shouldn't have done that. I'm only trying to help, Belle."

 _Trying to_ **help.** No anger, no fury at that statement. She should feel both, not this calm indifference. "Do you believe that?" she asked, nothing more than curious. "You're helping me?"

"Why else would I do this?"

It was Belle's turn to shrug. "Greed. Pride. Stupidity. Madness. I suspect madness. How did you stay alive during the war, Gaston? When someone told you your plan would get them all killed, did you ignore them, too? Or is it just women? Or just women who are,  _well_ ,  _you know_."

He was reaching the end of what little patience he had. "Belle. . . ." Gaston began, ready to reprimand her like a child.

She ignored him, not caring enough to tell him how tired she was of him treating her this way. "You may be right about the Dark One. I don't know. Not that it matters. You're right that he won't kill you." She reached for the hilt of the dagger he wore at his side. Gaston always kept it well oiled. It slid easily from its sheathe. "I will."

Gaston's eyes widened. She could see the disbelief in his face. Even now, after everything, he expected her to bow her head and do what he said.

Well, why not? It was what she'd done every day for nearly three years (three centuries). Why should he believe she'd changed? Or believe she'd never been what he thought? That everything she'd done had been done for one reason, to protect Bae?

Believing or not, years of training didn't desert him. He didn't _believe_ this was happening, but he still lifted one arm to block her while reaching to grab her by the wrist with the other.

She remembered fighting Jones. Trying to fight him. She knew how it ended when a large man who knew how to battle was challenged by a small, untrained woman like her. But, the same force that had thrown him back before now knocked Gaston's arms aside.

Another thing Belle remembered from her time with Jones. She'd seen how he slid his blade straight into that old man's chest, slipping up and under the ribs, going straight for the heart. She'd seen it a thousand times in nightmares. Even if she wanted, she couldn't forget how it was done. And, right now, she had no desire to forget.

It was even easier than it looked.

"Why?" Gaston had one moment to gasp, his last look one of baffled confusion. As if  _she_  were betraying  _him_.

"You killed my son, Gaston," Belle said, pulling the blade out and striking again. " _You killed my son!_ "

The ice broke. The river flooded. Belle stabbed him again and again, screaming those words at him till they became nothing more than incoherent cries and she couldn't see him for the tears flooding down her face.

X

LeFou stared at the madwoman in front of him. He hadn't been sure if he trusted his master's blind belief the Dark One would laugh off his losses here, but he'd  _known_  he was wrong about Madame Belle.

LeFou's family had run a tavern in their home village where he had worked as a child before coming to the city to seek his fortune.  He remembered serving drinks to a hunter who told spine-tingling tales of the dangers he’d faced. He'd told a story once of a mother bear protecting her cub from a vicious male out to kill her child. The male bear was over twice her size and had cornered her at a cliff's edge, where she had refused to give up, holding him back for hours.

During that time, the hunter had managed to climb up to the rocky ridge where the pair were facing off, till he was close enough to take a shot with his bow. He'd only wounded the male, though, which turned on him, ready to kill.

The mother had taken the opening and lunged, tearing the male's throat out with her teeth. As he fell dead, she had turned and snarled at the hunter. Fighting for survival, he'd expected her to just run off now her enemy was dead. But, she had recognized another threat, albeit one that had helped her, and wasn't going to wait for him to get another arrow in place and shoot her.

He only lived because the cub, after hours of terror, broke and ran away from them both, desperate to be away from its dead enemy. The mother, forgetting the man, ran off after him.

LeFou had suspected Madame Belle could give at least as good an account of herself as a mother bear.

But, Gaston was an experienced fighter and he'd found that magic apple among the odd relics Lady Rosamonde's family had guarded. If things had gone well, they would have been on the road back to the Marchlands before Madame Belle ever saw what had happened to the boy. LeFou, thinking of mother bears, had not wanted to see what would happen if they stayed.

Watching the knife plunge again and again into Gaston as she screamed at her son's killer, LeFou knew he hadn't guessed the half of it.  Gods above and below, he’d never imagined Madame Belle like this.  Her face was splattered with blood except where streaks of tears cut through. Her eyes glittered like a demon’s.  Was she even human anymore? Maybe this was something the Dark One had done, transforming her into a fiend from the deepest hells. He’d heard such tales.  Maybe this wild orgy of killing was the final transformation—and he was trapped in here with her.

LeFou wanted a way out before the madwoman remembered he was here. But, the only way out meant stepping past the lady and her blade. So, he stood there, frozen, while she spent her fury on Gaston's corpse, hoping nothing else would interrupt her before she'd worn herself out.

Fate wasn't that kind.

Madame Belle stopped. Her screams sounded more like sobs and she looked exhausted, crushed. It might have been a good thing, if she hadn't looked up from Gaston, making horrible, gasping, wounded noises, and stared at LeFou.

And if she hadn't still had the dagger in her hand.

X

Gaston was dead.

Belle wasn't sure when she realized that or how long he had been staring up at her with blank, empty eyes.

She jerked back, suddenly realizing what she had done. The smell—it was worse than the smell of butchered beasts, worse than the smell of men keelhauled or flogged. She looked up—

—And saw LeFou staring at her in mute fear.

Belle felt her own wave of horror at LeFou, at Gaston, at everyone and everything that had let this moment happen. Her hand tightened on the knife.

"Get out," she snarled at LeFou. "Get out. Getoutgetout _getout._ "

 _Your place_ , the Dark One had promised her.  _You will have power to forbid even me. If you want._

Something—the same force that had thrown Gaston against the wall—picked up LeFou and sent him crashing through the nearest window. He landed in a heap of broken glass.

But, it wasn’t glass.  She remembered the Dark One had told her the windows were as stronger than a fortress wall.  But, they’d broken at a gesture from her.

_Your place._

The shards flew up, settling back in the panes, cracks vanishing.  Belle saw LeFou scramble up, racing to the winter beyond her borders, running like a madman. Not that it mattered.  Not that she cared.

Belle turned back to Bae. The dagger slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.

She put her blood-covered hand to feel the pulse at his throat again, to try and feel his breath.

"Please, Bae," she whispered. "Please. Mama's here. Be all right. Be all right. For Mama. Please."

His skin was cold beneath her hand.

Belle picked him up, still wrapped in the fleece, clutching him to her chest as she rocked him, the same way she had when he was a baby, her breath coming in painful gasps.

She reached for her locket, clutching it like a lifeline.

_Rumplestiltskin, I'm sorry. I let this happen. I failed you. I failed Bae. I—I—_

There weren't words for this. A sound broke out of her, half scream, half sob.

"Gods, Rumplestiltskin, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, Rumplestiltskin, help me.  _Help me!_ "

Any other words were lost as she held her son's cold body, still rocking him in her arms.


	22. Words Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple tries to help.

Rumplestiltskin had spent the day restlessly pacing through his castle. Nothing kept his attention for long. Books were opened and discarded. Herbs were gathered for potions, half-mixed and tossed aside, some in carefully sealed vials so no magic would be released by accident, others burnt to ash when he didn't have the patience to put them away.

Even spinning brought him no peace. Oh, it cleared his mind and calmed him as it always had, but he found he did not want his mind cleared or calmed. Not thinking about what Belle was doing was worse than every worry he could conjure up.

Why couldn't Belle tell him her decision  _before_  meeting Gaston?

He had told himself when he made the house he wanted her to be happy. If being happy meant someone—someone who wasn't him—taking the place he'd once had (Rumplestiltskin gritted his teeth and thought about grinding diamonds to dust with a mortar and pestle), he could accept that. He had no right to make any claim on Belle. He knew that, not after everything he'd done. First, he'd failed her. Then, he'd blamed her and punished her for all the pain his failures had cost. In the end, she'd nearly died, nearly froze to death without him even noticing anything was wrong. If she could find peace, find  _happiness_ without him, he would be glad for her.

Really. He would.

But, when he'd made that decision, he'd been thinking of some golden princeling, like Queen Snow's charming boy. Or one of those heroically noble shepherd lads proving himself overwhelmingly worthy in the face of life threatening quests (as many of them as possible) to even the most critical of guardians (which Rumple would be). Again . . . like Charming.

Though the princeling would have bored Belle to tears after an hour's conversation. Battle and sheep, what else did the man know to talk about?

And the prince was happily married. And his twin brother was dead. And wouldn't have been worthy, anyway. So, no need to worry about him.

But, someone like that. Assuming there'd been anyone like that. Who couldn't be diverted to aim at another princess, or—

But, no. He'd wanted Belle to be happy. And, if he'd stumbled across someone remotely deserving of her, assuming there was such a thing, he would have brought the twit to meet her.

After doing a little work. Just to push him up from "remotely worthy" to "completely worthy." If that meant a few deadly (well,  _nearly_ deadly) quests to get him in shape, so be it.

Long quests.

Very long quests.

Except that Belle didn't deserve him playing games with her like that. She deserved . . . what a man like that could give her. She deserved it  _now,_ not years—or decades—from now, never knowing Rumplestiltskin was the one keeping her in misery.

Although, what she didn't know couldn't hurt her. Could it?

Right, because denying her happiness, and comfort, and peace was hardly any worse than letting her think he'd sell her to the first man who asked for her, was it? No worse than letting her suffer because he couldn't lift a finger (or a claw) to save her.

So, he told himself if a golden-shepherd-princeling, one without another true love waiting and who wouldn't bore Belle to tears, ever came his way, he would do what he could for the stupid, undeserving oaf. And for Belle. Since he had given up any right he ever had to stand in their way.

When he’d decided that, he hadn't meant Gaston.

Besides being a selfish bore, a lout, and  _freakishly_ tall— _much_  too tall for a woman like Belle (of course, Dove was too tall for his wife, but the Doves were glad just to be the same species and one that didn't have to worry about cats eating their young. They were willing to work around a few wrinkles), he was—well— _Gaston._

Rumplestiltskin should have turned him into a snail when he'd had the chance. He'd thought about it when he'd first broken through the curse and finally gotten into the Marchlands, but a dead and/or missing Gaston might have made Maurice more than a little suspicious of the sorcerer who showed up at his door soon after.

It still might have been worth it.

Rumplestiltskin thought Belle was going to turn down Gaston—he was  _certain_  she was going to turn down Gaston—almost—probably.

He hoped.

He hadn't expected the scream.

X

Rumplestiltskin appeared in Belle's home. When he did, it was the sound that struck him first, not the smell.

Men reached a point where they were too weary, too hopeless, too  _tired_  to scream anymore. But, the pain didn’t stop. It demanded its due, its outlet. Rumplestiltskin had learned that in the healers’ tents listening to the wounded and the dying. He knew the terrible, haunting moans that signaled men had reached that point. He remembered the nightmares he'd had as Morraine’s birthday approached, dreaming of her spared death in battle only to die slowly, torturously among the wounded.

There was another sound, one he'd heard less often in the tents, the keening wail of people watching their loved ones die. Back then, the army hired some of the soldiers' wives as washerwomen and cooks, letting them accompany their husbands to the front. There'd been others, family of soldiers who lived close enough to the battle lines to get word and come before the end. Rumplestiltskin had seen enough of them nursing husbands, brothers, and sons through their final agonies, enough to know the raw sound of grief that would never be healed.

And he had heard the awful, soul-destroying sound when the two met, when the unbearable and the unending were one and the same.

He recognized it now. It was Belle.

He knew what she had survived. He knew how pain had been part of her for years past counting.

But, it had never broken her. Till now.

The smell of blood and death was thick in the air. He saw Gaston lying against the wall. Rumplestiltskin's first thought was that an Ogre had gotten him. A starving Ogre could tear into a man that way, shredding him apart. But, a starving Ogre would have eaten Gaston, not left him there.

A few feet away, Belle huddled on the floor. She was covered in blood and seemed unaware of Rumplestiltskin. She held Bae in her arms, making that terrible keening, wailing sound as she rocked her son back and forth.

Looking at Bae's ice-white face, Rumplestiltskin felt his heart constrict. Even from here, Rumplestiltskin could see how very still Baelfire was, how cold. He knew, without having to touch him, his heart was still as stone.

But, Belle had wrapped their son in the golden fleece. It had turned warm and metallic. The boy was alive. Rumplestiltskin knew that much. Bae  _had_ to be alive. The fleece wouldn't turn to gold and give off sparks of magic if it wasn't trying to protect a life.

Belle couldn't know that. Even if she’d known magic, she was blind with tears, with pain. She hadn't even noticed his appearance in the room.

What had Gaston done to Belle? What had he done to  _Bae?_

Rumplestiltskin cast a simple spell of divination. Afraid of what would happen if he came too close to Belle—she was broken and he was terrified of shattering her beyond repair—he was even more afraid of not acting quickly, of letting his son's small life slip through his fingers while he stood and dithered. He fought the urge to tear the boy out of Belle's arms, not knowing what it would do to her if he did, not knowing what it would do to Bae if he didn't.

But, the spell gave him the answer. The sleeping curse.

Rumplestiltskin looked around and saw baskets of food, wine, and brandy, traditional house gifts. The wine and brandy were from the Marchlands. Lying on the floor, a single bite taken out of it, was a large, red apple, not unlike the one a certain sorceress had stolen years ago from the Blind Witch. Picking it up, he felt the dark magic saturating it.

Gaston would have brought the gifts—and this apple.

It was clever, much as Rumplestiltskin hated to admit it. There were protections all over the manor. If some fool simply tried to murder Bae, he would have failed. Spectacularly. And Rumplestiltskin would have known at once what had happened and done his best to reduce the number of fools in the world.

The apple wasn't poison. It wasn't even harm, not in the eyes of most magic. All it did was send someone to sleep—a sleep so deep it looked like death to anyone without the power to see the truth.

Bae was alive. He was also trapped in a world of nightmares. An adult might laugh at the idea of a child trapped in a world of regrets, but Rumplestiltskin knew how pure regret—and guilt—could be for one so young.

Rumplestiltskin crouched down beside his wife. "Belle?" he whispered, terrified of—of—he didn't know what. Belle had been shattered, like a china teacup thrown against a wall. Rumplestiltskin was afraid that one wrong move would grind the pieces to dust, beyond any wizard or true love's power to repair.

"Belle, it's all right. Bae's all right. Let me—let me see him. Please."

Belle didn't react to his words. Her eyes, blind or seeing—he couldn’t tell—were fixed on her son.

Gently, as if she could break apart at his touch (and she might, Rumplestiltskin thought), he reached out and put a hand to her shoulder. "Please, Belle, I'm trying to help—"

Belle threw off his hand clutching Bae even tighter as she tried to pull away from him. He knew, even before she screamed at him, he wasn't the one she saw.

"Trying to help, Gaston?" Belle said. " _Trying to help?_ "

"Belle, I—"

"Stay away from me! Don't you dare touch my son! Don't you—Just get out!  _Get out!_ "

The command hit Rumplestiltskin, inexorable even for him. Especially for him. He'd promised her, binding himself with magic, that this place was hers. She had power over who could enter and who could abide.

There'd been a loophole. There was  _always_ a loophole. But, he hadn't meant to use it against her. Never.

He had to leave. His own magic demanded it.

There was nothing that said he couldn't take her with him.

Smoke of magenta and gold cleared away, and they were in the castle library. Belle was still holding Bae. She seemed to have forgotten he was there. Or maybe she just thought the smoke had carried him off. If she could even think that far. She didn't seem to have noticed where they were.

He tried again. "Belle, it's me. It's—"  _Rumplestiltskin. Your husband._ "—the Dark One. I'm here. It's all right."

His words seemed to register this time. Belle shook her head and moaned. "It's not—it's not—it's not all right." The words came like blood spouting out of her.

"Belle—" He looked at her helplessly.

"He killed him. Gaston killed him. I tried to protect him. I told him—Oh, gods, I told him not to play in the stable. I was afraid the warhorse—I told him, and he knew I'd seen him— _I tried—"_  She began to make that terrible, keening cry again.

Wherever she was, it wasn't a place words could bring her back from. But, she didn't throw him off this time when he put his arms around her. Instead, she collapsed against him, still crying.

Rumplestiltskin held her close, because there was nothing else he could do.

X

Belle had first learned—or thought she'd learned—the limits her body had when she gave birth to Bae. The labor had been long and hard. Or so it had seemed to her. The midwife, who looked almost as tired as Belle, had told her it could have been worse.

Later, Belle had learned about other limits, limits of suffering and hunger. Even fear and horror. There was a point where she couldn't feel them anymore—not any of them.

Somewhere, in of a universe of pain, she reached that point. She didn't know if she had slept or collapsed or if her mind had simply closed down, unable to deal with the world any longer.

And, now, she was recovering. And the pain was coming back.

Someone was holding her.

 _Gaston_ , she thought for a sickening, terrified moment.

But, she heard the voice repeating comforts over and over again, like a parent soothing a child woken from nightmares. Whoever held her was gently stroking her hair and holding her close.

The Dark One, she realized.

They were in the castle library, curled up on the floor. The lamps were lit. Night had fallen.

How many hours since—since—?

"Bae," she said, too weak to do more than whisper.

"He's well," the Dark One said, still stroking her hair. He rested his scaly cheek against her forehead and, for a moment, she thought he meant to kiss her brow. Not that he did.

"Gaston—he—he—Or was it a nightmare?" Please, gods, let it be a nightmare. She'd—she'd been at the house. Not here. She should be at the house. Unless the Dark One had brought her here? Desperately, she asked, "Did I dream it?"

The Dark One's grip around her tightened just a little. She saw the pain in his eyes.

 _No,_  she thought.  _Please, no._

"Gaston tried," the Dark One said, his voice grim. "He failed. Bae's all right."

Then, why didn't she believe him? Why had there been pain in the Dark One's eyes? "Where is he? Let me see him! I—" Belle tried to get up, but her legs buckled under her.

"Wait," the Dark One said, still gentle. "You’re still weak.  And you need to understand what Gaston did. Do you remember what happened when he came to see you?"

He was trying to be kind, Belle thought. Trying to make her ready for what he had to tell her.

 _Don't scream,_ Belle told herself.  _Don't scream._

"Please," she said, trying to hold back her panic. "If Bae's all right, why are we waiting? What's happened to him?"  _Just tell me, let me know the worst. Don't try to comfort me with lies when my son is—when he's—_

Bae was dead.

The Dark One's grip on her tightened. For a moment, he truly looked like a demon. " _He's all right,_ " he said—he  _growled._  She could feel the words rumbling in his chest. "Have I ever lied to you, Belle? Not twisted words or played with a deal, but lied?"

". . . . No."

"Then, believe me, he's all right. But, you need to tell me what happened."

She'd learned to pretend to believe so many lies.  _It doesn't hurt. You enjoy it, don't you? Admit it, you wanted this._

It was the truths that threatened to destroy her.

 _You're the one he should be angry with_.

_If you'd just done what I said, none of this would have happened_

Slowly, she told him the truth. How she'd turned Gaston down, his insults and accusations. How she'd tried one last time to put things right between them before he left, trying to remember why that had mattered. . . . And how—and how—

"It was an accident," Belle said. "That's what he'd said. As if that made it all right. Not killing, Bae. He meant to do that as soon as I turned him down." She thought about the apples, wondering how Gaston meant to sneak them away after she'd seen them. Or was only one poisoned? And that just happened to be the one Bae ate? "Maybe even if I didn't turn him down. He couldn't believe it when I said no, but he'd still brought the poison with him. He just hadn't meant to let it happen while he was there. That's what he was angry with LeFou about. He wanted—he wanted to just throw Bae's body away, to hide him like a piece of garbage." There shouldn't have been any tears left in her, but Belle found herself crying again. She wiped at them, ashamed of the display but too tired to fight it. Just remembering, just finishing this tale was almost beyond her.

"He said you wouldn't care," she told the Dark One. "He said Bae was just a playing piece to you, that you might even  _respect_ him for outsmarting you. And it wouldn't matter if he was wrong. Your deal with Maurice would keep you from going after him."

The Dark One's hand on her hair stilled. "Did he?"

Belle nodded into his chest. "Was it true?" Hordor had wanted to send Bae to die in an orphanage. Jones tolerated him because he could be used to threaten her. She knew Gaston felt threatened by him but he'd tolerated him, and she'd thought—she'd thought—

It didn't matter what she'd thought. She'd been wrong about Gaston, and Bae had paid for it.

"Was it true?" she asked again. "Would you—could you just forget him and move on?"

She'd learned to feel a man's anger. She could feel it in the Dark One, now. Cold fury radiated off him in the way he stiffened against her. "Never."

Then, he relaxed, holding her comfortingly again. "I love him, Belle. And I love—" He caught himself. "I love him the way I loved Morraine. Gaston wouldn't have been able to hide behind the words of a deal. Or behind an army. Not from me."

Some of the tension drained from Belle. "That's what I told him. But, he wouldn't listen." Then, she thought of Bae and felt a stab of fear.

"Please. My son. Let me see him. Or tell me why you won't."

She saw the wariness in his eyes, and felt cold. He hadn't lied to her. But, there were lies and lies, weren't there? "Soon," he promised. "You'll see him soon. But, you need to understand something, first."

"You said—you said he wasn't dead. You said—" As her exhaustion ebbed, her ability to feel fear—to fee terror—was coming back with it.

"He's not dead. Listen to me, Belle:  _he's not dead._

"The apple Gaston used wasn't poisoned, not exactly. It was cursed, a clever curse. It makes me wonder how he thought of it. Whoever took a bite from the apple would fall asleep, a sleep like death. But, it's not death.  _It's not death._ Bae is alive and resting. I know it looked like death to you, but it isn't. Do you understand me? _It isn't_.

"It's easily broken—"

Panic began to billow up inside her. "Then—then why haven't you broken it, yet? What's wrong with Bae? What aren't you telling me?"

"It's easily broken, but only—only by the right person. I need you to break it."

"Me? I'm not a witch. How can I. . . ?" She stopped. "There was a spell in one of your books. I only glanced at it, but. . . . A life for a life. That was the price of returning someone from the dead. Is . . . is that what you want from me?"

"How did you—? No, Belle, of course not! How could you even think—?"

Fury swept over her. She was so tired. Tired of being lied to, of being told half-truths, of having to trust Bae's life to people who didn't care if he lived or died. "Then, why? What can I do that you can't? Why do you even need me? Why—?"

"Belle, I need you because—!" the Dark One stopped, holding back whatever he was going to say. He closed his eyes and she almost thought she could see him slowly counting to ten as he calmed himself. "I need you . . . because I need you. Because I care about you. And your son.

"And you can save Bae because you're his mother and you love him—you love him so much I am terrified for you sometimes. Because, you would trade your life for his. In a heartbeat. And stay away from my spellbooks, if they're giving you ideas like that.

"Any curse can be broken with true love's kiss. That's all you need to do. Kiss Bae. And love him. And the curse will be broken."

He got up, pulling Belle shakily to her feet. "You can do this, Belle. You can save your—you can save  _our_ son."

He led her over to a small, curtained alcove, his arm around her, bearing her up. Normally, all that was on the other side of that curtain was a window seat. Today, the window seat had been replaced with a small bed and the place where the window normally was had become a smooth, plastered wall. It felt enclosed and protected.  A blanket was pulled up to Bae's chin, to ward off the cold. In a sconce high above the bed, was a small lamp so Bae wasn't alone in the darkness.

His face was still deathly pale and his chest didn't rise or fall with his breaths.

"He's dead," Belle said. "He's dead."

"He's not." The Dark One turned her towards him. He pulled out his handkerchief, looking her over. "I cleaned you up from—from earlier, but let me have a look at you." He dabbed at her tears with the silk cloth. "There. You look fine. Let him see that face when he wakes. Now, just kiss him. Think of how much you love him, and kiss him."

Belle knelt down beside Bae. She smoothed his dark curls away back. He was cold, like marble, to her touch. He might as well be one of the effigies lying over the tombs in the castle crypt.

It couldn't be true, Belle thought. She didn't understand why the Dark One was saying this. Somehow, he meant it for a kindness. But it couldn't be true. Bae was dead.

She began to cry again. A waste of a perfectly good handkerchief, she thought. Water stains ruined silk. Unless the Dark One used magic to clean them.

Why couldn't there be magic for this? Magic to save a little boy?

A life for a life. He'd said he knew she would die for Bae. It wasn't a sacrifice she would regret making. Was that what he really wanted her to do? He had only to ask but . . . was this his idea of kindness, to let her die for Bae without knowing she would die? A small mercy?

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

Following his instructions, thinking of everything she felt for her son, she leaned over and kissed his cold brow. She leaned back, running a hand through Bae's hair and closing her eyes, waiting for her heart to stop.

Except it didn't.

Her breath continued to come in and out. There was no pain or slow spreading stillness. Nothing changed.

And Bae was still cold beneath her touch.

Now, the pain came, hard and remorseless. Belle didn't know what she'd done wrong or how she had fallen short. Did she not love Bae enough? Or was her love, like the rest of her, too flawed and broken to save him?

A tiny, weary part of her wanted to rail at the Dark One.  _Why did you give me hope?_ But, she had seen the sorrow in his own eyes. Whatever he'd done and for whatever reason, she was sure he'd meant it for kindness.

She remembered Maurice at a court feast when he was deep in his cups mumbling drunkenly something she hadn't understood at the time.

"Don't rely on kindness," he'd warned Belle, with the deep sincerity of the thoroughly drunk. "Kindness wears out."

Kindness wears out.

There was a small cough. Then a gasp of breath.

Bae was sitting up, spitting out a piece of apple.

"Mama?" he said. "Mama, what's wrong? You look sad."

Belle, pulling him to her in a crushing embrace, was crying too hard to answer.


	23. Unmasking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out.

There was a plant called the moon-flower, the sun-flower’s midnight sister.  The blossoms were easily gathered but, unlike the sun-flower, their power could not be stored or distilled.  Neither could it be forced.  The flowers remained shriveled and closed until touched by the light of the rising moon.  Then, they would delicately unfurl their petals, glowing like pale stars, touching the air with a faint, almost imperceptible scent. 

The moon-flower could not heal minds—Rumplestiltskin knew no magic that could—but it soothed their wounds, easing the pain.

Holding Belle, waiting for the moon-flowers he had in a vase on the worktable, Rumplestiltskin felt more helpless than he had in centuries.  He hadn’t been so powerless since Morraine died and he could do nothing but avenge her.  Now, all he could do was try to comfort Belle and hope that the moon-flowers, or exhaustion, or the strength of her own soul would bring her back to him.

As the moon-flowers opened, he felt some of his fear beginning to ease.  Perhaps he was the one they healed.  Belle, in turn, had begun to stir in his arms, lifet and understanding coming back into her eyes.

Rumplestiltskin had stayed back after Belle's kiss woke Bae, breathing a sigh of relief. He'd never doubted Belle's love was strong enough. The woman would walk through hell and back— _had_  walked through hell (and, he hoped, was beginning to find her way out)—for their son. Knowing that hadn't kept him from feeling his own fear when he'd seen his child lying still as death. Knowing all would be well—and breathing the healing scent of the moon-flowers—hadn't kept him from fearing for Belle.  Something in his heart eased as he saw light slowly creep back into her pale, masklike face, like petals unfurling. In many ways, she'd looked closer to death than Bae. 

Now, as he watched her holding their son, for the first time since he'd found her, she was like the woman he had married so many years ago. Her features lit up with a happiness without fear or wariness hiding behind it. He remembered this same glow when they had danced at the fair where they first met so many years ago.  He saw it again when they had danced on the village green for their wedding day. Belle had seemed as beautiful as any queen to him, her wedding wreath as fine as any crown. Their neighbors had smiled and laughed with them, sharing in their joy.

It had been a long time since he thought of home with an ache for what was lost.

Then, Belle looked up, turning those shining eyes on him. She had been crouched down beside Bae. Now, she turned and knelt before him, a vassal to her lord. She had been like this in Maurice's court when he came for Baelfire, crouched down and holding the boy tight as she begged not to be separated from her child. He had been so blind to her courage that day.

Rumplestiltskin tried to do what he should have done then, reaching out to pull her up. Still holding Bae tight against her with one arm, Belle took his hand with the other. He thought for a moment she was going to kiss the back of it, as he had kissed hers when she finally told him, weeping, what it had meant to be Jones'—Jones’ _slave_. Instead, she pressed it to her brow like a supplicant or a servant—or a slave—pledging to her master.

"Thank you," Belle breathed. "Thank you. For saving my son—I can't—I can  _never_  repay what you've done, but I—"

Rumplestiltskin pulled his hand away as though it burned him. He knelt down in front of her and took her by the shoulders. "No. Belle,  _no_. You're the one who saved Baelfire, who broke his curse. It was all you. I did nothing."

Belle shook her head. "It was my fault. I let Gaston in. I didn't watch over Bae. I didn't even—this dress you made me, you said it would protect me. But, Bae wasn't protected. I didn't even think of the danger to him—I didn't—"

His grip on her arms tightened. Without thinking (he was always so careful in how he touched Belle), he pulled her and Bae into his embrace. "You mustn't think that," he whispered into her hair. He began babbling about spells and poisons. "The apple, it got past every protection I put on your house and the grounds around it. It's a subtle spell. Magical protections don't recognize the sleeping curse as a danger. It's only sleep. It's not death or transformation or any other kind of harm. The curse won't even work unless you choose to eat what's been poisoned with it. Force someone to eat it, and it's powerless. The nettle cloth wouldn't have stopped it. You saved Baelfire, Belle.  _You._ "

But, she was shaking her head again, even if she didn't try to push him away. "You'd have saved him. With magic. Or true love. I know how you love Bae."

That was enough to make him loosen his grip and lean back, though he kept his hands on her arms with Bae now sitting on her lap, encircled by them. "I couldn't," he said. "Not without paying a terrible price. I—I can kiss the ones I love—" His eyes strayed for just a moment to Belle's mouth as he spoke. He bowed his head, trying to look as though it was only shame, not temptation, that had made him drop his gaze from her lips. 

And he was ashamed. This simple, life-saving thing Belle had done so easily was something he hadn't dared do—not before exhausting all the other possibilities.  He was a coward, always a coward.

He had explored true love in all its many forms over the centuries. A spell shaped from the hair of Queen Snow, Prince-Consort Charming, and their daughter had been the final piece that had let him into the Marchlands. In the process, he'd also learned about the odd dangers it presented to him and how to protect himself.

Not that he'd thought he needed protection, not really. But, he was a cautious, old lizard. And . . . maybe, in the back of his mind, despite all his stupidities, some part of him had always known how he felt towards Belle.

Though, true love was a tricky thing. There were elements of will, and desire, and more.  Such a simple, complicated thing. . . .

He kept to the part that was simple. "Even if I love another—even if it's true love, I can . . . keep its power at bay.  If I don't deliberately invoke it, it has no power over me." Or, even if he discarded all his protections, if he wasn't caught completely by surprise and kissed someone he loved while pretending it had to mean nothing to him and nothing to her. . . . But, there was no reason to dwell on scenarios only an absolute idiot could find himself in. Of all the blunders Rumplestiltskin had made since finding Belle, none of them were that spectacularly stupid. "My power is also a curse.  If I broke the curse on Bae, I would destroy my own power doing it. You were the one who saved him."

"I was under a curse?" Bae asked. He looked impressed. Then, memory flashed through his eyes and he cuddled closer to Belle. "It gave me nightmares."

Rumplestiltskin's face fell. "Regrets," he said. "Another thing magic can't guard against, remembering things you wish you'd done. Or hadn't done." He looked at Belle. So many mistakes. . . . He turned his attention back to Bae. "What did you dream?"

"Mama," Bae said, nestling even closer. "People hurt Mama. I didn't stop them."

"Didn't" he'd said, not "couldn't." Rumplestiltskin thought back on his own childhood. No, little boys never did understand when they were powerless to save the parents they loved.

Belle's face twisted with grief. "Oh, Bae. . . ." She'd tried to protect him, not just from danger but from the horror that was the core and marrow of her life—and she  _had_  protected him from so much of it against impossible odds.

But, children always knew more than their parents thought.

"You did protect her, in the end," Rumplestiltskin told his son, running a hand through his curls. "It was because of you I came to Maurice's court and brought both of you away. You saved your mama when she was in the snow and other times. You've been a good son, Baelfire. The curse tried to make you think otherwise, but it lied to you."

There would be other nightmares tonight. Unless Rumplestiltskin took steps. A side effect of the curse, Bae's mind would be drawn back to that dreaming world, and not in a good way. Rumplestiltskin had the means to deal with that realm—and could teach Bae to deal with it—but tonight wasn't the night.  Tonight, he would use an easier solution. Tomorrow, he thought. He would deal with the complicated things tomorrow.

He felt in his pocket and found a few strands of gold. There should be enough. He closed his hand over it, concentrated, and opened it to see the small amulet he'd made lying in his palm on a gold chain. He slipped it over Bae's head. "This should keep off any bad dreams tonight," he said.

"I'm not sleepy!" Bae protested. "I slept for  _hours._ "

"Magic sleep isn't the same as real sleep," Rumplestiltskin told him severely. Then, he relented. "Although, you can stay up a little longer, if your mother says so." He looked at Belle uncertainly. "Speaking of . . . I thought you might want to—to stay here. At the castle. But, if you want . . . if you'd prefer your house. . . . ."

"No!" Belle said, a flash of panic in her eyes. "I'd—I'd like to stay. If that's all right."

"Of course." He supposed he couldn't say that he was just as terrified of letting Belle out of his sight as she was to go. Would telling Belle that frighten her? Make her think he wanted to keep her and Bae locked up in the castle forever? Not that it didn't sound like a wonderful idea to him, but he thought Belle might disagree in the long run.

"But, what about the Doves?" Belle said. "Won't they be worried?"

"I sent them a brief message," Rumplestiltskin said. "They know you and Bae are here." It had been  _very_  brief.  _Your lady and her son are at my castle. There's a mess in the front room. Clean it up. After a moment’s thought, he’d added, And keep your daughters away from it._

He'd been tempted to not even do that. Where had the Doves been while this was happening? But, Crystal and Bianca were just children. He couldn't let them stumble into that slaughterhouse without warning. And Rumplestiltskin was the one who’d failed to protect Belle.  Despite every protection he’d laid on her home, a fool like Gaston had nearly destroyed her.  It was his crime, not theirs.

Besides, Belle wouldn't forgive him if he did. All the same, he growled.  "Where were the Doves while you were dealing with Gaston? Why didn't they help you?"

Belle looked embarrassed. "I was having luncheon served outside. I . . . didn't care to be alone in a room with Gaston after telling him no. And, if he was difficult, he could have eaten out there by himself while I went in the house."

Ah, and slammed the door in his face. "You just weren't expecting him to be _that_ difficult."

Belle put her hand to her locket. "I should have. I knew Gaston. I knew something was wrong when he offered me everything if I married him."

 _I would offer you everything,_  Rumplestiltskin thought.  _Everything and more, if. . . ._

No, he couldn't say that. He  _mustn't_  say that, even if he was having trouble remembering why it was such a bad idea.

"Thank you," Belle said, still fingering her locket. "For coming."

"You called." And he had been terrified at the sight of her and Bae. He glanced at the work table behind him where pale flowers bloomed in their crystal vase. He hadn’t known if it would help—if anything would help.  So, he'd held Belle, trying to comfort her, clinging to hope. "I had to come."

". . . . Yes." Belle looked pensive. "Do you—" She stopped, and looked at him intently, trying to read secrets in his face. She reminded him of young boys back in his home village when they stood on the high rock over the forest pool for the first time, steeling themselves to dive into the shadowed waters below. Belle took a deep breath. "Do you remember when I found you looking at—looking at Morraine's doll?"

It was his turn to hesitate, wondering where she was going with this. ". . . . Yes."

"You said—or I thought—you kept mementos there. Treasures. From your past?"

"Yes."

"From. . . ." and, now she took a deep breath, preparing for the plunge there would be no turning back from. "From before you were—were the Dark One?"

"Yes."

She stroked Bae's hair, as if assuring herself he was there, that all was well. She dived in. "Could you show me? Please?"

He looked back at her. Easy to say no, to tell her those were things he wasn't ready to share. Easy to hide what she was looking for before she saw it.

Easy to do what Gaston did and take the decisions from Belle that were hers to make.

Rumplestiltskin nodded and got up, taking her hand. Bae yawned as they stood (cursed sleep and real sleep weren't the same at all. And nightmares had their own way of wearing people out). He picked up his son. Together, the three of them walked through the hallways till they reached the room.

Rumplestiltskin hesitated at the door.  _Last chance._  Wave his hands, hide the proof. Tell her to walk away. Or just walk away himself and leave her staring at a locked door. . . .

He waved his hand but only to open the door. Then, he stood aside, letting Belle go in first.

Belle looked around. She seemed to have an instinct for how the room was organized. Of course, she did. They'd been married long enough, and she'd helped him in his work. He'd shown her how he kept his tools and dyes and dozens of ingredients for his work, explaining the logic behind it. She knew exactly how he thought.

Belle pulled back a sheet. A small cradle was underneath it, still the same as it had been the day Rumplestiltskin found it when he returned home. Only the dust had been wiped away.

He made a small gesture at a nearby chest. Its lock snapped open. No need to say anything, not now. He put Bae down and stepped back. Whatever was about to happen, he shouldn't be holding the boy like a shield between them.

Belle opened the chest. There were quilts and worn linens inside, things Belle had made. There'd been a time when he'd meant to keep her clothes—she would have only had the clothes on her back when Hordor sold her to Jones—despite believing Hordor's lies, that she hadn't needed the rags he'd made for her when her lover, a rich sea captain, had carried her off.

But, he'd been so poor. He'd had to sell nearly everything he could make, and still he and Morraine had been near starving. As Morraine grew, he'd hemmed and cut Belle's old clothes, making new ones to fit her. When Morraine was killed, he'd found what was left of them in the same ditch he'd found her doll. Those clothes were also carefully stored away in this room, along with the rest of Morraine's small treasures, just not with the things that had been Belle's.

He heard the crinkling sound as she unwrapped the tissues (there were wizards whose spells were all made of words, linked one to another. Their charms to keep off hungry bugs and other ravages of time were some of the best in the realm, designed to protect their spell books. These sheets of magic tissue had been part of Rumplestiltskin’s price to restore a library the Ogres had destroyed. It seemed appropriate, he thought. Belle would have wanted him to save those books).

The tissue out of the way, Belle lifted up the contents, a wedding wreath. She stared at it, looking over every blossom and leaf. Then, she put it aside and brought out the other thing Rumplestiltskin had wrapped in that paper, the shattered pieces of the comb he'd once given her.

"It's broken," she said.

"I found it that way," he told her. His voice was rough and hoarse. "Lying by our—by our bed. I thought you'd broken it."

"No, I. . . ." She closed her eyes painfully at the memory. "It—it was my first day of mourning. I was wearing it. In memory." Her hand went to the locket again. "When Hordor came . . . it must have been knocked out. I—I didn't have it when they locked me up."

She'd lost her temper, she'd told him. She's struck Hordor and driven him into the street in front of the whole village. He'd told her to get rid of Bae, to send him to the orphanage to die. Rumplestiltskin could imagine Belle attacking him with the same fury she'd attacked Gaston.

That he expected her to attack him with.

"I—I suppose he stepped on it," Belle said. "I suppose he ground it beneath his heel. That—that would be like him." Her hand was shaking. She put the comb back in the tissue and looked at him. Shocked—afraid—disbelieving—he couldn't read her expression. She was tottering on the edge of a precipice, not knowing what waited for her when she fell in.

Moon-flowers, he thought, he should have brought moon-flowers.

"You can't be him," Belle whispered.

Shape-changing was such a small spell. With a flicker of thought, he became the man she would have known, the man he'd once been.

_And what would have happened if I took this form in the inn instead of those others?_

Belle was pale as Bae had been under the curse. She shook her head. "No. You can't be. You  _can't._ "

"We met at the fair in Longbourne," Rumplestiltskin said. "I mended a tear in your dress and danced with you. I met your mother afterwards, and she didn't think I was good enough for you. I never knew why she let me come to dinner. The roses in your wedding wreath, they're from a bush your mother nursed through our harsh winters. On—on our wedding night, you had a nightgown of fine cambric your mother had given you. Your hair smelled of roses. . . ."

Belle was still shaking her head but it wasn't denial anymore. Trembling, she got up and walked towards him. "Where were you?" she said. She was crying again. She balled her hands into fists and beat against him. "Where were you? I needed you.  _I needed you!_ "

He put his arms around her, pulling her to him. "I know. I needed you, too."

"You were dead.  _They told me you were dead!_ "

"I nearly was," he said, "My leg—I'm sorry, Belle. It was months before I could even walk. When I came home, you were gone. Hordor lied. He told me you'd left with Jones. That you'd chosen to. He never told me he'd sold you. No one did.  I thought—I thought you were ashamed of me. Or—or wanted a rich man. I didn't  _know_ , Belle."

She was crying into his chest. "You weren't—you weren't a wizard. You were just—just an ordinary man. How. . . ?"

"Becoming the Dark One. It's passed. Like a curse. It—it changes you. Your appearance. Unless you will it back. Belle, I—" But, that was when she looked up at him. Her mouth was so close to his.

They weren't the kisses he wanted to give her, crushing and fierce. He had that much sanity left.  Even these, delicate, gentle,  _worshipful_ , might horrify her, he thought, pulling back. This might be no different than the way he'd nearly destroyed everything between them on All Soul's Night.

Belle didn't return his kisses but, as he pulled away, she looked up at him wonderingly, as if he were rain and she was dry earth in a desert. Her hand cupped his cheek. Hesitatingly, shy as a deer afraid of the hunter, and she lifted her face to his. Still gently—so afraid of hurting her in some way all his power could never fix—he let his lips meet hers, drinking her in.

"Ewww," Bae interrupted. "What are you doing?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wanting to see a nonmagical moonflower blooming, here it is:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUkEfkzMlrM
> 
> I had the image stuck in my head not long after I had sun-flowers for physical healing (and as a little reference to Lucy's cordial in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe)


	24. Tales Told at Bedtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle puts the pieces together, and Bae asks for an explanation.

"You called," the Dark One said.

Belle had a strange moment of clarity. She could see herself, her mind closing down in horror, holding Bae and rocking him. He was so still, so pale.  She was overwhelmed with the knowledge she had  _failed,_ failed at the one thing that had made all the years bearable. She had promised herself and the gods and (above all else) Rumplestiltskin's soul, wherever it might be, she would protect their son. She would do whatever was necessary to protect Bae and keep him alive. When the worst happened, when she thought she couldn't endure the pain and humiliation another moment, she remembered Bae and went on.

If he was dead, everything she'd done was meaningless. Silencing the screams in her mind as she did as she was told—and  _smiling_ as she did it—it meant nothing. She'd bought her life with the betrayal of every good memory she had, her mother's hopes for her, her husband's love, and it had been for  _nothing._  She'd failed Bae.

She remembered clutching her locket, screaming.

In that moment, whether she was begging for help or judgment, she knew who she had called on.

Almost as if he were answering her, the Dark One said, "I had to come."

She looked at him,  _really_ looked at him, scaled face and lizard eyes, the voice always either too high or too deep, never just in the range of the one she remembered. But, the way he sometimes spoke to her, the wit and sharp mind lying behind his mad humor, his moments of kindness, and the way he sometimes looked at her—the way he was looking at her now—she recognized these things. . . .

He'd changed, he said, when he gained his power.

He'd had a wife, a wife who was gone when he returned to his village. The people told him she'd become a rich man's mistress. He'd found his son again, so he’d said, but his son hadn't recognized him.

His anger towards her when they'd first met, as if she'd wronged him—as if  _she_ had wronged  _him_ , not someone like her, not some memory,  _her._

She'd been the one who had said it,  _Bae is your child, now, as much as mine_. Later, when he'd called Bae  _our_  child, she'd thought he was only echoing what she'd already admitted, but perhaps he'd meant something more. . . .

". . . . Yes," she whispered.

No. Yes. It was the truth. She knew it. A thousand pieces suddenly fit together perfectly. But she didn't believe it. She'd been half-crazed with grief when she found Bae. It had been midday and, now, it looked to be hours past sunset. She didn't remember any of that time except for a feeling of choking, dark horror closing in on her. Belle thought she'd been mad—perhaps she was mad now, thinking such an insane thing,  _believing_ it. She needed proof—

And she remembered the room she'd found him in so many weeks ago, looking at the doll of his dead foster-daughter, a doll of the sort she could imagine Rumplestiltskin making for a child, in a princess dress of sunshine yellow with hair and eyes the same color as—as—

. . . . The same color as hers.

If . . . if she was right. . . . She knew how Rumplestiltskin thought, how he did things. She remembered his weaving supplies, neatly laid out in his work area, his loom and his wheel, his dyes tidily lined up by color, and ingredients for making more carefully organized by a complex system of his own.

"Do you—" Belle stopped. Did she want to ask this? She looked into the Dark One's sad, kind eyes. There was peace between them, a feeling of safety. What if she destroyed that? This might be nothing more than a moment's madness from her overstretched nerves.

And what if she was right? The truth could also destroy this small peace they'd found.

Belle took a deep breath. "Do you remember when I found you looking at—looking at Morraine's doll?"

The Dark One went still, the way Belle did when she sensed danger. ". . . . Yes."

"You said—or I thought—you kept mementos there. Treasures. From your past?"

His eyes became dark, unfathomable. "Yes."

"From. . . ." and, now she took a deep breath, preparing for the plunge into that darkness. "From before you were—were the Dark One?"

"Yes."

Belle stroked Bae's hair. Her son was alive and well. What more did she need to know? Whoever and whatever the Dark One was, she knew she could trust him to do everything in his power to protect Bae. Wasn't that enough? Why did she need more? "Could you show me? Please?"

The Dark One helped her up. He picked up Bae, who was already showing signs of being tired (the Dark One had been right about that) and curled up against the wizard, trying not to yawn. The Dark One managed to hold the little boy with one arm, holding her hand with the other.

They had touched before, but Belle hadn't thought before—or hadn't let herself think—about how his skin felt. It wasn't human. She had met a noblewoman once who had a purse made of incredibly small, unbelievably thin circles of brass all linked together. It had moved as supplely as cloth when she let Belle examine it and had felt like water running through her fingers. The Dark One's scaled hand was like that, only warm where those metal links had been cold.

When they reached the storage room, the Dark One let her go, making a small gesture at the door to open it, then standing aside to let her pass. She saw—she thought she saw knowledge in his eyes, like a condemned man stoically waiting for his turn at the hangman's noose.

Belle stepped into the room. It had the same neat tidiness as Rumplestiltskin's supplies. There was no smell of dust or decay. Several of the trunks gave off the strong scent of cedar (mothbane, they'd called it in the Frontlands). There were other smells of things cleaned and cared for. She was tempted to ask the Dark One where the objects she was looking for would be, just to see what he would say. Instead, she made it into another test, to prove if she was right or wrong (or sane or mad).

If Rumplestiltskin had arranged these. . . . She went over to the sheets put over what she supposed were pieces of furniture. If she was right, old things from the Frontlands would be . . . here.

She looked at one large shape beneath a white cloth. A bed, dismantled, its pieces carefully stored, might resemble that. Instead of looking at that one, she chose a smaller cloth and pulled it aside.

There was a cradle underneath. The wood was carefully (lovingly?) oiled. She remembered going to the village carpenter, a man too old to go to war, to have it made, spending some of the precious coins from the small hoard buried in the secret spot beneath the floorboards. It was made from driftwood cast up by the sea. The lumbermen, along with the rest of the able-bodied, were gone to fight. The good wood that was still being harvested was saved for the war.

Belle heard the clicking sound of a chest being unlocked. She looked over and saw that the lid of one of them slightly propped open. She didn't look at the Dark One, much as she wanted to. Instead, she went over and pushed the lid all the way back.

Lying on top of a carefully folded quilt with what looked like a familiar pattern (but, she told herself, she couldn't see it clearly. It didn't mean anything) was something wrapped in thin, delicate paper covered in spidery handwriting she couldn't read. Cautiously (you could never be certain what you were dealing with in the Dark One's castle, after all, even if she trusted him not to toss anything  _too_ dangerous her way), Belle unfolded it.

It was her wedding wreath.

There were her mother's roses, dried and carefully preserved. There was the spot where she snipped away a rosebud to make a luck charm and a remembrance for her husband going off to war. Impossible as it was after so many years, when she took it out, the scent of the flowers wafted up to her.

She put it aside.  Lying beneath it were the remnants of the comb Rumplestiltskin had given her when they first met.

"It's broken," she said. Had he smashed it? Destroyed it when he found her gone?

"I found it that way," he told her. His voice was rough and hoarse, yet familiar. He wasn't trying to disguise it anymore. "Lying by our—by our bed."

_Our bed._

Belle closed her eyes. That was the truth, then. He was—he really was—

"I thought you'd broken it," the Dark One said. He sounded as if he were pleading for her understanding.

He'd thought she'd broken it. He'd thought she'd betrayed him and left his gift shattered in her wake.

"No, I. . . ." She closed her eyes again, wishing she could forget that day. "It—it was my first day of mourning. I was wearing it. In memory." Her hand went to the locket again. She'd been a widow a year and not known it. Except she'd never been a widow, had she? "When Hordor came . . ." He'd demanded— _demanded—_ she marry him, demanded she send Bae away to die.

But, Rumplestiltskin hadn't been dead. She hadn't been a widow.

She'd imagined a thousand times how that day might have played out differently. If she'd kept her temper. If she'd—if she'd accepted Hordor's offer but convinced him to let her keep Bae—if—if—

All of that changed if Hordor knew Rumplestiltskin lived.

Belle looked at the comb. This, at least, was a comprehensible mystery. "It must have been knocked out. I—I didn't have it when they locked me up." She imagined Hordor, angry, vengeful, going back into the house after she was taken away. "I—I suppose he stepped on it. I suppose he ground it beneath his heel." And, then, he had done the same to her. "That—that would be like him."

She put the comb back. This was insane. It wasn't  _possible._  Rumplestiltskin had been a simple spinner, without magic or power. She looked at the Dark One, the inhuman lines of his scaled face and the sad pleading in his eyes.

"You can't be him."

He changed the way he had that night at the inn. Only, this time he didn't become Gaston, or Jones, or a snake-eyed manservant. He became her husband—he became Rumplestiltskin.

Only, it wasn't Rumplestiltskin. She could have told herself it was a lie if he'd been the Rumplestiltskin she remembered. This man was older, his face marked with weariness and sadness. He stood in the Dark One's fine clothes with a poise a peasant weaver would never have found even while his eyes fixed on her with fear to see how she would react.

There was a coldness in him, she thought, a hardness the man she'd loved had never learned. He was the man who had threatened to tear her child away from her, who had worked her to exhaustion trying to get her to leave.

"No. You can't be. You  _can't._ "

"We met at the fair in Longbourne," the Dark One said. "I mended a tear in your dress and danced with you. I met your mother afterwards, and she didn't think I was good enough for you." He grimaced slightly, as if he agreed with her. "I never knew why she let me come to dinner. The roses in your wedding wreath, they're from a bush your mother nursed through our harsh winters. On—on our wedding night, you had a nightgown of fine cambric your mother had given you. Your hair smelled of roses. . . ."

Belle remembered. She remembered the frightened awe Rumplestiltskin had looked at her with, afraid to touch her for fear of doing something wrong. She had been equally innocent and afraid—but anxious for things she couldn't quite understand, wanting the looks he gave her—as though she were the most wonderful thing in the world and he couldn't quite believe she was real and not a dream—to spill over into his touch, into his lips brushing against hers. And, she had hoped that he could see something equally wondering in the way she looked at him. . . .

For seven years, not a day had gone by that she hadn't thought of him, mourned him, known in her heart that things would be different if only he'd lived.

Belle didn't remember crossing the distance between them but she was pounding her fists on the chest of the most powerful wizard in the world, shouting, "Where were you? I needed you! I  _needed_ you!" over and over again.

His arms closed protectively around her, as if she were the one being hurt, not him. He was answering her, telling her how Hordor lied—to him as well as her. He'd believed—he'd believed she'd  _left_ him. For Jones. He was explaining things about his magic, things she didn't understand.

Only she looked up at him, trying to ask one question without being able to find the words.

Was he real? Was any of this real, or had she gone mad at last?

She looked at him, not knowing how to say any of the things bursting inside her. Suddenly, he fell silent, no longer trying to explain anything. His lips brushed against hers, gently, tenderly, the way he had on that long ago wedding night when they were both just learning the dance of love. It had opened for both of them, as softly as a flower, with no hint that it could ever be a weapon or a source of pain.

She had forgotten it was even possible for a man to touch her like this. . . .

"Ewww," Bae interrupted. "What are you doing?"

Belle pulled back from the Dark One—from  _Rumplestiltskin_ —realizing what she had been doing in front of her son. The Dark One let her go, though there was nothing embarrassed in the warmth in his eyes as he looked at her. He knelt down in front of Bae. "Baelfire," he said. "Do you understand what your mama and I were talking about?"

Baelfire shook his head. Emphatically. He didn't know and he didn't want to know—not if it had to do with  _kissing_.

"Years ago, I fell under a very powerful curse. It's how the Dark One becomes the Dark One. Your mama has seen through that curse. She knows who I really am." He looked up at Belle, and she felt an ache in her heart. She knew that warmth and good humor. That had been the same look in his eyes whenever they had faced a problem together back before the war.

"Rumplestiltskin," Belle whispered. "He's your father, Bae. He's Rumplestiltskin."

That had hardly been the end of the conversation. Bae had a thousand questions. You didn't tell a child the father he'd never known—that he'd grown up thinking was dead—was the mighty wizard who had whisked him away to live in his magic castle without a great many questions being asked.

The story Rumplestiltskin wove was one of evil villains (Hordor, Jones) and valiant heroes (Rumplestiltskin, Belle). Like a child's tale, the poor commoner suffered under the villains till the day came when he had to fight them and emerged victorious. But, that was only the beginning of his long quest to find the loved ones the evil villains had taken from him.

"But, I was still blind," he told Bae. "The villains had made a net with words to keep me from ever looking for your mama again."

Rumplestiltskin then proceeded to tell his son a fairy tale. It was the story the way it should have been, stripped bare of all the pain and nearly all of the lies and stupidity (or that was what Belle thought Rumplestiltskin almost called it, a look of self-loathing in his eyes), a story about a man who survived the wars when he was believed to have died and became a mighty wizard. But, an enemy who hated the man and his wife had made false accusations against her and seen her sold as a slave. When the man returned home alive, the enemy had made a cunning web spun out of lies.

Rumplestiltskin didn't call it a spell, but Belle doubted Bae really understood there were ways to spin and weave with words that had nothing to do with magic—and those were often the most powerful traps to fall into. Rumplestiltskin didn't say it made him forget Belle, either. If he implied it, well, she could see him saying in the half-smile he gave her, it was only a fairy tale kept simple for a little boy. He couldn't be expected to keep track of everything, could he?

“I forgot the truth,” he said. “And I couldn’t recognize your mama when I looked at her, not who she _really_ was.”

Who was the real Belle? She thought of all the times she had smiled for Gaston and the look on his face when she took his dagger. She thought of telling Jones whatever it was he wanted to hear and the fierce joy—the  _relief_ —she had felt when she heard he was dead.

Rumplestiltskin went on with his tale. His enemy had made a mistake. The man in this story may have forgotten his wife but he had never forgotten his son, despite never seeing him or holding him in his arms. When he became a wizard (which was another, longer story he wouldn't be telling tonight), he had searched the world for what he knew was the most important little boy in the whole world. When he found the child was trapped in a cursed realm, he had spent centuries finding the way to break the curse and save him.

And, even though he hadn't known his wife when he saw her, he had taken her with him because he could see how she loved that little boy and how much the little boy loved her.

"He wasn't kind to her at first," Rumplestiltskin told Bae. "Not kind as he should be. But, little by little, his heart began to remember her, breaking free from the net of lies his enemy had made. As that happened," he looked at Belle uncertainly, as if hoping she would agree with what he was about to say. "She began to—to recognize the heart of the man she'd known. Till, one day, she demanded he show her a room where he had kept all the precious treasures from his past, even if he didn't always know why they were precious to him. She found their son's cradle and her wedding wreath. She found the precious comb her husband had given to her and that her enemy had broken. She knew him then. And, when she looked at him, recognizing him, he knew her as well. . . ."

That was hardly the end of it. There was nothing in the world like a small boy for questions. Rumplestiltskin continued answering, weaving everything he could into a story with no dark horrors hidden inside it, one that went right alongside what he had already told Bae, that he was the special child he had bargained for with Lord Maurice, that it was because of Bae Rumplestiltskin had been there to save his mother from the Marchlands.

Belle thought he'd been afraid when he began this tale, as if Bae would be disappointed when he discovered  _this_ was his papa, but Rumplestiltskin's son's eyes glowed as he looked up at his father. Bae demanded stories from Rumplestiltskin about the past. Till, somewhere in the midst of them, exhausted, the little boy drifted off to sleep.

X

Rumplestiltskin watched his wife ( _his wife,_ now, there was a beautiful phrase) as she kept her eyes fixed on their son after they put him to bed. She watched the rise and fall of his chest and looked at the pink flush in his cheeks, full of life. She ran a hand through his hair, feeling the living warmth, so different from the way he'd been just a short time before. Finally, she managed to tear her eyes away from his sleeping form and look at Rumplestiltskin, a mix of sadness and happiness in her face as she met his gaze. With a bittersweet smile, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Bae, she whispered, "You lied to him."

Ah, yes. Let's start with the truth between us this time, shall we? But, he thought, from the look in her eyes, Belle meant to forgive him. "Well, I can't tell him about all the things I did wrong, can I?"

She flushed. "I don't mean. . . . What you told him. About me."

He quickly thought over the story he'd made, wondering what she objected to. "It was true enough. You saw the truth about me."

Belle shook her head. "Not that. I mean. . . . Rumpl—My lord. A—a man in the Marchlands who finds his wife bedding another man has a right to kill her."

Rumplestiltskin reeled back as if she'd hit him. It took him a moment to find words to reply. "Then they're barbarians. At least, Gaston makes sense, now."

"Frontlands law allows it, too."

"It doesn't—" Oh.  _That_  law. "It's not a right. It's a—" No, wait, mitigating circumstance in a murder trial wasn't the issue. Or that a woman could claim the same defense. Or that it only applied if—"That's beside the point. I'm not—Do you think I'm going to kill you?  _Now?_  After everything?"

Belle glanced at Bae. Rumplestiltskin wasn't keeping his voice down. He cast two, quick spells, wrapping Bae tighter in sleep and keeping their words from reaching him. "You judged me before," Belle said, still keeping her voice low. "You were right, I didn't deserve to be your servant. I betrayed you—every memory I had of you. I—"

Very deliberately, Rumplestiltskin knelt at her feet, taking her hands in his. "Belle, everything— _everything_ —that happened to you is because I failed you. I wasn't there to stop Hordor. I never even tried to get you back from Jones. I—When I knew I had to break the curse, I was thinking of Bae. I never—" the words choked off as he thought about all the things he had brushed aside. He bowed his head over the back of her hands, kissing them. "—I never thought about what you were suffering, that you needed to be rescued, too. Gods, Belle," he groaned, looked up at her, knowledge cutting him like a knife. "If you hadn't fought for Bae when I came for him, I would have  _left_ you there. I would have _abandoned_  you to that—that—"  _Monster_  wasn't a word he could use without irony. "—that selfish, butchering, child-murdering rapist." There, that was better than monster. "I would have—"

Belle knelt down beside him, putting her hand over his mouth. "He wasn't—Gaston never forced me. I—I chose—"

"Chose. The way you 'chose' Jones? Because one brutal torturer you might survive was better than two dozen who would have killed you? And left Bae to die? Was that the choice you meant?"

"He didn't—he never  _forced_ me. You have to believe that."

Which still left him a selfish, butchering, child-murderer. Which was beside the point right now. Tightening his grip on her hands, he looked up at her and asked as gently as he could, "Did he ever ask you? Even once?"

"He—he let me be when—when I was sick. And—and sometimes—when I was too tired."

"But, did he  _ask_ you?"

"Lord Maurice told us both. . . ." she trailed off. "Maurice discussed it with him, first. So, Gaston told me. Because he was his heir and—and Maurice wanted him to know wouldn't force him to marry me. Not unless we had a child."

"He wouldn't force Gaston. I see."

"It wasn't like. . . ." Belle trailed off. She bit her lip the way she did when she thought things over. "It . . . was like that. But . . . but that's not the point. You were alive.  _Alive._  And I—"

"You did what you were forced to. And you kept yourself and Bae alive." He kissed the back of her hand again, wishing he dared to do more. But, not now. Not when they were talking about Gaston and Jones and what they had done to her. "I wish I could just wash away your pain, Belle. But, I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're alive and that I can beg your forgiveness for all the ways I failed you. I'm glad I have the chance to—to  _try_  and make things right."

"You don't—you didn't do anything wrong. You're the one who should be angry. You did nothing wrong.  _Nothing_."

He shook his head, wondering if he could list all his sins so she would understand them. "I wasn't there when you needed me. When I came home, I believed Hordor's lies, that you'd  _chosen_  to run off with another man—rather than face the shame of being my wife. I didn't—I didn't search for you—"

"You'd have died," Belle said. "If it was before you had your power, Jones would have killed you. Like he killed that old man."

He could see the pain of that memory in her eyes—and the pain of being able to do nothing to save the girl, Verna, the one the old man had been trying to save. This time, Rumplestiltskin did reach out to her, cupping her cheek in his hand and caressing it. "If I'd been wise. . . . I might have petitioned Jones' king. He was known to be merciful to commoners who begged his aid." Politics or kind-heartedness, Rumplestiltskin didn't know, but either one would have served. "All I would have had to do was pay your bond. And not give Jones a chance to skewer me."

Belle flinched. He let his hand drop away from her face. "Don't—don't joke about it."

"I'm sorry," he said, bowing his head, his hair brushing the backs of her fingers. "I know—I saw men die in the war. Men I knew. I should know not to make light of it." But, the war and his failures in it weren't what he needed to talk to her about. "I . . . just accepted it. That I couldn't save you. That you didn't need to be saved. Those were lies, and you were the one who paid for them.

"Then, when I had the power to save you . . . I didn't. I did everything I could to save Bae, and that saved you from the curse and Gaston in the end. But, it's no credit to me that it happened. I failed you, Belle. And I'm sorry. I've been sorry since I saw the scars on your back and realized how wrong I'd been. About everything. Worse, I realized I'd just been one more man who hurt you when I should have done everything in my power to help you."

"If—if you thought that. . . ." there was a rumble of emotion in Belle's voice. This, Rumplestiltskin thought, must be close to what happened when she finally struck out at Gaston. He felt a strange kind of relief, hoping she was about to turn her anger out at him, where it ought to be, instead of at herself. ". . . then why— _why_ —would you let me marry Gaston? Why didn't you send him away or just  _tell_ me. If I'd known who you were—that you were alive—why didn't you  _tell_ me?"

He bowed his head again. This time, he resisted the urge to do more than keep his grip on her hands, much as he wanted—he  _wanted_ —But, that was the point, wasn't it? What  _he_  wanted. "For a long time," he said in a low voice. "I was a stupid fool. I was angry. When I had no right to be. Then, when I knew the truth . . . I couldn't . . . I didn't. . . ."

Belle's voice was calm and empty. Dead and defeated, he thought. "You didn't want a whore for a wife."

Rumplestiltskin strangled back a string of curses. In his present state, he might set the room on fire (or worse) if he let them loose. "It's not about what  _I_  want. It's about what you  _need_. You're the most amazing woman who's ever lived. If I had the power to make you a goddess and could spend the rest of eternity groveling at your feet, it would be better than I deserve—and if you got tired of tripping over me and decided to turn me into a slug and crush me, it wouldn't be a tenth—a hundredth—a  _thousandth_  of what I have coming to me after the way I failed you.

"But, that still wouldn't be what you needed. And, as far as I could tell, you didn't  _need_  another man claiming the right to be in your bed, and to hell with what you thought."

"It wouldn't have—"

"Wouldn't it? Belle, I have no  _right_  to call myself your husband. Every oath I made when we were married—to love, to honor, to cherish and protect—I failed in those. You owe me nothing. But, I owe you. To make up for all the things I did wrong, to  _try_  and pay you back for everything you've suffered." And for saving our son, he thought but didn't say, knowing that would be the only thing Belle heard if he did say it. He knew she had only let herself—and forced herself—to survive because of Bae, but he wanted her to know her life was valuable because it was  _hers,_ that his debt—and his failure—would be just as great if Bae had never been born.

He treasured the beautiful son fate had given them, despite how little he deserved him; but he also blessed his existence because, thanks to Bae, Belle was here. He was the reason Rumplestiltskin had taken Belle away from the Marchlands, that he had learned how wrong he had been and how much he needed Belle's forgiveness.

And he had the chance to beg for that forgiveness. If only Belle would realize how great his wrongs were before brushing them aside and saying there was nothing to forgive.

"I told myself, if you found someone to love, someone who could be worthy of you and make you happy, you deserved to have that. I had no right to stand in your way." He grimaced. "I didn't expect you to pick  _Gaston_."

Belle smiled weakly. "I didn't pick him. Not in the end. I. . . ." Uncertainly, as if she expected him to fight her, Belle helped him up. She sat down on the edge of Bae’s bed.  Rumplestiltskin sat beside her. "I . . . think you're what—what I need. What I feel safe with." She leaned in and kissed him. It was an uncertain kiss, Rumplestiltskin thought. Not like the first time they had kissed. She had been sure of herself, then. Her eyes had been glowing and she had been breathless from dancing as they drew aside into the shadow of the trees.

This was more like their wedding night, when they had finally been alone in their room, standing a few feet apart in front of the bed neither one of them had the courage to look at. Belle had touched his cheek and leaned in, giving him a kiss that trembled, as light and uncertain as the wings of a frightened moth. And he had found it easier to concentrate on the feeling of the cloth of her nightgown—a finely made cambric, better crafted than anything he had ever seen in the Frontlands—than on the warm body inside it. . . .

Except that, that night, they had both wanted everything they had reached for so uncertainly, afraid of finally touching it. Tonight . . . he let himself believe she meant it, that she needed the safety he'd tried so hard to give her, but there was no matching desire in her eyes. No fear, either. But, no desire.

Still, he let himself caress her cheek and lean his forehead against hers. "I love you," he whispered. "Even when—when I told myself I hated you, yours was the form the siren took when I visited her spring." He let himself kiss her, the way he had earlier, gentle and without demand. Then, he pulled away. "The one thing I want, Belle—more than anything—is to never see you look at me the way I saw you look at Gaston, smiling because he expected you to smile, being with him because—because you were expected to let him use you."

"I—I do love you,” Belle said. “I always loved you."

Or the memory of the man—the much better man—he'd been. He smiled crookedly at her. "And I will always love you. And that's why I never want to see you hurt again. And, if I asked anything more of you tonight, it would hurt you. So, I won't ask it. Not tonight, not ever. Not till—till you're ready to ask me." He gave her that uneven smile again. "And convince me you aren't just taking pity on an old man when you do it. All right?"

Belle looked like she would protest, but he could see the small shadow of relief in her eyes. Sharing a man's bed had been something she'd learned to endure. Any enjoyment was so long ago and buried beneath so much pain, he wasn't sure she would ever be able to remember it.

But, she could remember what it was to feel safe. That much, he could give her.

"Thank you," Belle said. She leaned closer to him. Like Bae, exhaustion was finally catching up with her. "Would you—would you stay with me, tonight? Not—not as a lover. I just—I'm afraid to be alone." She sounded very small as she said the last. When had she been able to tell anyone she was afraid? Or lonely? And trust them to care or not use it against her?

"Of course," he said, stroking her hair the way he had after he found her in her home, Gaston's dead body lying only a few feet away.

She'd worn her hair up, he remembered, letting the scars on her back peep up along her collar. Strands of it had come loose after the frenzy of her attack on Gaston (good riddance to him) and had come down entirely as Rumplestiltskin used magic to clean away the bits of blood.

"Would you . . . if you would like, the scars on your back, I can heal them, make them go away." She stiffened in his arms. "Not if you don't want," he added hastily. "Or if you want to think about it. I understand."

"It's not that," Belle said slowly. "It's . . . you said . . . I didn't need Gaston to give me an honorable name. You told me I—I had made choices, brave choices. To save Bae. To try and save that girl. But . . . Jones, Gaston, Lord Maurice . . . so many people have said—have  _told_  me that what—what happened to me was—was nothing. And you said they were wrong. I—I believe you. I think. But, without those scars . . . it would be as if it never happened. Not to them. I'm not—I'm not ready for that."

He kissed her brow. Nothing more. A quick, chaste kiss. He could find other ways to convince Maurice that being flogged wasn't nothing—that being helpless and being tortured by two dozen men larger and stronger than you wasn't "nothing" either. But, Belle wouldn't like that. "As you wish, sweetheart."

Belle lay down beside Bae. Rumplestiltskin suspected she wanted to spend hours watching her son, reassuring herself that he was alive, but her body made its own demands. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

He lay down beside her, keeping his promise, his arms wrapped around her, nothing more. Even in her sleep, he could feel some of the tension ease out of her at his touch. Her breathing grew more peaceful as she rested against him.

It was enough, he thought. If this was all Belle could ever accept from him, it was enough that she felt so safe with him that even his touch could give her the peace she needed. This was what she needed from him. He would never ask her for more.

 


	25. Arriving in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LeFou tries to tell Maurice what happened to Gaston.

LeFou hadn't slept for days. Sir Henri had been outside the inn when he came galloping in. LeFou had told him only the bare bones—Gaston was dead,  _murdered_. Henri had gone in to get the others. LeFou had been about to follow him when the stable boy came up to him to take his horse's reins.

"What's wrong?" the boy asked. "You look like the Dark One himself is after you."

_The Dark One himself._

This was the Dark One's village, built in the shadow of the mountains where he made his home and under his protection.

Madame Belle was the Dark One's creature. LeFou remembered her face, calm as death as she came up to Lord Gaston and slipped the dagger out of its sheathe and into Gaston's heart. He remembered the fire burning in her eyes as she stabbed Gaston's corpse again and again—and the surge of magic as she threw LeFou from her house.

This wasn't the court lady who had acquiesced to all Lord Gaston's desires for the better part of three years, smiling pleasantly. Oh, he’d known Gaston might push her too far, especially over her son.  But . . . LeFou thought of those dead eyes again and shuddered. For all he knew, maybe the Dark One  _had_  killed her. He thought of ghost stories they told in his home village, of revenants and worse.  Maybe the thing that slaughtered his master was a demon the Dark One had dressed up in the gentlewoman's corpse.

And LeFou was in the Dark One’s lands. LeFou had trusted Gaston when he’d said that cursed fruit wouldn't kill the boy and that the Dark One would be bound by his bargain not to harm them. Till he'd seen the boy fall to the ground, as breathless and pale as any corpse. Till he'd seen Belle covered with Gaston's blood. Till she'd looked at him and tossed him aside with nothing more than a flick of her hand and the madness burning in her eyes.

LeFou knew then he had to get of there. He had to get away from the mountains, away from the monsters who lived in them. He had to warn Lord Maurice. Then, _he_ could deal with the creatures while LeFou kept running. . . .

He was able to change horses at way stations.  He knew it meant leaving a clear trail if the Dark One came looking for him, if the Dark One thought of things like way stations or asking who had passed through.  LeFou could only hope it was too human a thought for a demon—or that he had too good a lead.

He looked for the wizard in every passing shadow or sound of a cracking twig or branch. Sleep was impossible, even if he'd dared. By the time he stumbled into the Marchlands, he was half-dead, his thoughts fevered with exhaustion. As he rode for Maurice's castle, he saw the banners lining the streets with their unfamiliar crests but paid no mind to them. When the castle itself came into sight, he saw the flags flying from the staffs, but they didn't matter. All that mattered was reaching Lord Maurice and letting him know how terribly wrong it had all gone. . . .

He tried to croak some answer when the guards stopped him, demanding to know his business. "Lord Gaston," he said, as he tumbled off his horse. "Terrible danger—must warn Lord Maurice—must warn him—"

One of the guard's eyes grew large. "LeFou?” he asked uncertainly. “Is that you? What _happened_ to you?"

"Must warn his lordship," LeFou said. "Must—" He raced past them, and they let him go. LeFou ran to the feasting hall, where he could hear music playing. There were guards outside the doors. They started to bar his way, but someone shouted behind him—two of the guards from the gates had accompanied him, not that he'd noticed. The doors swung open and LeFou stumbled in.

"Terrible news, my lord!" he shouted to Lord Maurice. "Terrible news! Gaston is dead, murdered by the Dark One!" LeFou's knees gave way and he slumped to the floor, the last vestiges of strength deserting him. But, he had made it. The message had been delivered and warning given.

There was a high pitched giggle behind him.

"Oh, I wouldn't call that  _terrible_  news," a familiar, inhuman voice said. "And I wouldn't call it murder, either. Quite a legal execution, all things considered."

"And it was not the Dark One," Madame Belle said, grave and calm. "I was the one who killed him." She addressed the hall at large. "If I may beg leave to tell your majesties of it?"

The Dark One giggled again. In a voice only LeFou heard, he said, "Good of you to show, dearie. I was afraid you'd be late. But, you arrived right on time."


	26. Judgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle explains why she killed Gaston and asks for judgment.

Belle took a deep breath. She had stood unnoticed in the crowd since the royal guests arrived, giving her a chance to observe. Queen Snow was dressed in white silk. Pearls and diamonds twined her neck and were set in her hair. Beside her was Prince-Consort James (or Charming, or David, according to Rumple). His clothes had a military cut. His jacket was red velvet with gold braid.

Belle frowned, noticing something about the gold braid, its color and twisted shape. She gave Rumple a pointed, suspicious look. He saw it and just smiled, extremely self-satisfied.

James had the sure walk of a military man. Belle thought of Gaston and Jones and felt her stomach turn.

Rumplestiltskin had told her James was a just man. He had been raised by his widowed mother, who had been killed as punishment by James’ foster-father, the king, when James thwarted him. That same foster-father had waged war against James' wife, Snow White, and, as a last act of revenge, fed her a poison to render her barren. James understood the special cruelties a woman could suffer at the hands of powerful men, Rumple told her. He wasn't like Gaston.

He wasn't like Maurice.

And Snow White wasn't like Rosamonde. She ruled in her own right, apart from her husband.  _Her_ father had never thought twice about having a daughter as heir.

Belle believed her aunt had been a strong woman in her time. She had been too much like Belle's mother for her to believe otherwise. Like Elise, Rosamonde’s last act had been to save lives. She had died to buy the Marchland’s safety and survival.

But, she had not been the ruler of the Marchlands.  No matter how ancient and respected her family, it was Maurice who had the final say in all decisions. What power she’d had had shrunk as illness ate away at her. She had roused herself three times from her sickbed during Belle's time at court: to greet Belle and learn the fate of her sister; to make Maurice swear to give Belle and Bae a place at court—and _never_ let Jones near her; and the third and final time when she had summoned Belle to say goodbye.

She’d said would have raised Belle as her own daughter, given the chance.

Behind Queen Snow and Prince-Consort Charming James-David came Prince Eric and Princess Ariel. Eric’s coat was more like a tunic and heavily embroidered. Belle could appreciate the time and work it took to make a garment like that. It was clearly formal and the red sash cutting across it suggested something military, but . . . not like the ones Belle knew.  It didn’t remind her of Gaston.  Really.

Ariel wore a gown of sea green, her wide skirt built up in gauzy layers that made it look as though she were rising from the ocean. Her red hair was woven through with strings of pearl and paua shell.

Rumplestiltskin had described Prince Eric as “ _annoyingly_ trusting—most of the time.  But, not when it comes to making deals. His kingdom survives on their ports and trade. I sometimes thought his father understood fine print better than I do. Eric's not that good, yet, but he's getting there."

After the Ogre Wars, the remains of Avonlea had been absorbed by neighboring lands. The lion's share of what had once been that kingdom was now ruled by Snow and Charming. However, Eric's family, while they only held a small piece, had inherited several ports and some of the coastal lands.

"The Marchlands could recognize either royal family as their rulers," Rumple said. "Or neither. It might be in Maurice's interests to stay independent. Or it might be in his interest to have allies with a navy whose flag other ships recognize. The current visit is just an everybody-getting-to-know-each-other-and-let's-all-be-friends sort of party."

The important thing was that Maurice was no longer the final authority in this room. He would not be the one to judge what Belle had done.

She had a moment to wonder what the crowd would make of Rumplestiltskin and her, dark wizard and infamous courtesan (soon to be more infamous). He had used some spell to keep people from noticing them, but it would be wiped away when they stepped forward, addressing the assembly.

The last time Rumplestiltskin had been here, he had been playing the monster in his scaled leathers.  This time, he was playing the courtier, albeit a very powerful courtier.  He was practically blinding in a suit of cloth of gold with a lacy cravat that cascaded down from his throat like a waterfall turned to snow and gold-and-diamond buttons down his coat that would have bought their entire village back home.

As for Belle, her dress was (impossible as it seemed) even grander. Her husband had wanted no one to doubt who outranked who. The gown was cloth of gold embroidered with even more gold and pearls and diamonds. Its lace trim was just as white as Rumplestiltskin's cravat, made even more blinding with the winking lights of diamonds worked into them. In contrast, she had kept her hair simple. It was bound low to the side of her head with a small circle of white and yellow roses, falling across her shoulder and down her chest in small fall of curls. Her jewelry was almost plain, simple earrings of pearl and two rings, the one her mother had left her and a twisted band of gold around the ring finger of her left hand, rather like the braid on the prince-consort’s coat.

When LeFou, half-mad and wild-eyed, burst into the room and announced Gaston's murder, Rumplestiltskin squeezed her hand and stepped forward. No, not murder, he told everyone cheerfully, legal execution at worst.

Then, Belle stepped forward. Rumplestiltskin gave her an exaggerated bow as he stepped aside for her. It was theatrical, but it was also a clear announcement that he was at least pretending (or so she suspected the royals thought) she outranked him. Then, Belle confessed her part and requested to speak to their majesties.

But, before any of the royals could answer, Maurice stood up. He was looking at her in horror. "Belle, what have you done?" He looked at the Dark One. "What have you done to her?"

"Speak to _me_. Father," Belle said, surprised at the coldness in her voice. "He's done nothing. Gaston poisoned my son. Ask LeFou. He was there. He brought the poison into my home as a gift." Belle turned to the quivering, exhausted mass lying on the feasting room floor. "Isn't that so, LeFou? The only thing Gaston was upset about was that it didn't look like an accident."

"I—I—Gaston said—We couldn't let the Dark One use the boy. When the wizard didn't kill him, Gaston knew he had some other use for him—We couldn't—"

"I believe that's a 'yes,'" Rumplestiltskin said. He looked at the four royals. "I don't know what you have heard about recent events here, but I bargained with Maurice for, er, guardianship of a young boy. Baelfire. His lordship seems to have had the _nastiest_ ideas about what I wanted the child for. I am _horrified_ at the way his mind works—which, I'm sure some of you will appreciate, isn't something I get to say very often, not and sound convincing."

"Well, Father?" Belle said. "Gaston came to murder my son. He had a cursed apple that was part of the trove Lady Rosamonde had the duty to guard. Who besides you could have given it to him?"

Maurice looked ashen. For a moment, Belle hoped he was about to deny everything, to explain how Gaston had stolen the apple or tricked him into handing it over—something— _anything_ —that meant he hadn't tried to kill Baelfire.

Instead, very deliberately, he looked away from her. "I have no daughter," he said. "I see a woman I gave refuge to. Out of mercy. And I gave her place in my court for the same reason. In return, she makes false claims and says she murdered my heir. Get her out of my sight."

Rumplestiltskin gave his madman's giggle. "Anyone want to obey that order? Anyone? We already have one funeral to plan, but we can squeeze in a few more." He waited, looking over the guards. None of them tried to lay hands on Belle. Satisfied, Rumplestiltskin went on, "Actually, Maurice, you may not remember this—you were a bit drunk at the time—but you already told me Belle was your daughter. But, more importantly, Lady Elise left a letter, explaining all. She also included a little note someone else had written her. Were you feeling a bit guilty, Maurice? You made some rather extravagant promises to the poor girl. I take it you didn't mean to keep them?"

"You didn't offer me a refuge for mercy, _Father,_ " Belle said, not sure if it was true. Anger and pain warred in her.  Smee had brought him the ring and told him the woman it belonged to begged for his help. Maurice had sent his guards down to the docks at once and rescued her and Bae. He had saved her, saved _Bae_ from Jones. Surely, that had to mean something?

Maybe it had.  But, whatever he had given her, he had taken it back when he gave Gaston the apple to give to Bae. Belle forced herself to go on. "You made me promise never to ask my father's name, never to speak it if it was spoken to me, never even to admit that I suspected who my father was." She swallowed down tears. "We had a _deal_. And, in return, you promised safety to me and my son." Safety. Not protection. Gaston might still have cast her off if he'd married. Maurice might have sent her away. He didn't even owe her a refuge, not by the terms he’d given her. So long as he didn't openly attack her or Bae, his side of the bargain would be kept. Such a small, ragged promise. But, it had seemed enough.

"You didn't keep it," Belle said. "You sold my son to what you thought was a monster—and you only became worried when you found out he hadn't hurt him. You gave Gaston the poison to use against him. Didn't you?" Gods, she was crying again. This was no time for tears. This was no time to be weak. But, she couldn't help it. "Please," she begged him. "Tell me you didn't. Tell me Gaston tricked you, he lied to you. Tell me you didn't know what he was going to do, and I'll believe you."

Maurice was silent. He still didn't look at her. "This is not the time or the place to discuss the fate of a bastard boy," Maurice said. "Dark One, you made a deal with me. And you broke it."

"And, as I'm a better man than you are, you expected me to keep it. Is that it? Well, I have." Rumplestiltskin gave him a smile that showed far too many teeth. "You're probably going to say something about how the deal said no hurting any heirs. I think there might have even been some obligation to _protect_ the little inheritors." He coughed delicately. "So, as you see, Lord Maurice, you violated the terms."

"What? I never—!"

"Ah, I might not have made this point _completely_ clear at the time, but I looked on young Baelfire as my own son from the moment I took him. An heir. If you check the contract you signed, you may notice that it doesn't just say _your_ heirs. If you knowingly aided Gaston to kill _my_ heir, the deal is void." He looked at the four royals. "That is why my lady wife and I have come when your majesties and royal highnesses were present. We wish you to hear the evidence and decide the matter."

"Wait," the prince-consort said, looking like he'd been kicked in the head by a larger than average mule. "Did you say your _wife?_ "

"No, I said _my_ _lady_ wife. You need to learn to listen closely." Smiling, he reached out and took Belle's hand. She turned towards him as he took it. They had discussed this. Rumplestiltskin had developed a dramatic streak over the years. Belle knew part of this was play-acting. But, part of it wasn't. She saw the way his eyes warmed as he looked at her and the way he smiled as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. She smiled back.

And there were gasps from the high table as she turned and the guests saw her scars. The dress had a scooped neck. Hardly the display of flesh Gaston had always insisted on (though he’d always wanted her back hidden), but Belle knew enough of her scars were visible to make quite a show. She had made sure her hair was hiding none of it.

"What happened?" Prince-Consort Charming-David-James gasped. "Did the Dark One do that to you?"

 _These are the wounds I received in the house of my friends,_ Belle thought, remembering an old ballad. "No," she forced herself to stay calm. "This was done to me by—by one my father will tell you was an honorable man, a ship's captain, Killian Jones." And what did the prince-consort think of scars like this? He was a military man. Would he agree with Maurice, that order needed to be maintained?

Rumplestiltskin squeezed her hand. She saw the silent message in his eyes. _You can do this._ "But, you can ask my father. After all, he thought I should marry him. Even after he put these scars on my back."

Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat. "But, getting back to the 'my lady wife' part of the conversation?" he said, "I suppose Maurice is expecting me to explain how I married Belle after taking her away from all this. He may even be putting an argument together in his head about how I needed his permission, wonderful guardian that he is. So, let me reassure you. Belle of the Frontlands, daughter of Lady Elise of Avonlea, has been my legal and wedded wife for three hundred years. When a matter of a small war involving some Ogres had managed to draw me away from home, an enemy of mine managed to steal Belle away from our home. He convinced her I was dead—he made a surprisingly persuasive case for it, better than I would have expected—then sold her. To Jones." Rumplestiltskin had told her there were parts of this story he wouldn't share with the people here, not unless he had to. There was no reason, as far as he was concerned, to let them know how he had become what he was. How the Dark One could be killed and how another could take his powers was something he had _no_ intention of advertising.

"When I returned home—I admit, I don't like to think I'm an idiot, but you wouldn't know it from this—my enemy managed to convince me Belle had chosen to leave. I . . . accepted that. I didn't go after her.

"You see, the business with the Ogres had kept me away from home for some time. I didn't know Belle was with child when I left. By the time I knew I had to rescue my son, the curse had already fallen on the Marchlands." Maurice was staring at him in horror. "But, you knew, didn't you? When Belle came to you for help, you knew she had a husband still living, even if you might have thought he was a more _ordinary_ sort of spinner." Rumplestiltskin looked fondly at Belle. "My lady wife never needed pretension, and a simple life in a village suited us both at the time."

"The simple life?" David-Charming-James said. " _You?_ "

Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. "I don't prefer it _now_ ," he said. "Now, I prefer a life with as many impenetrable walls as I can put between what I love and the rest of the world. But, I found a taste for it then." He beamed at Belle. "The company made it worthwhile." He turned back to Maurice. "Instead of sending me word—which would have earned my undying gratitude—you let Belle believe I was dead. In fact, I understand you talked about marrying her off to the same man who gave her those scars. When Belle refused and your wife supported her, you tried to make a match between her and Gaston. When I finally broke through the curse around your land and bargained for the child, you were only too glad to get rid of what you thought was a mere peasant's—what was the word you used? Oh, yes— _grub_."

He looked at Maurice coldly. "You have abused my wife. You have betrayed your daughter. You have tried to murder our son." He turned his attention back to the royals. "I ask your judgment. Prince James, you've seen the sleeping curse. My lady believed her son had been murdered by a man she might not have counted as a friend but who she didn't think of as an enemy. He did it when he was a guest under her roof. He was armed. She wasn't. She managed to get his dagger away from him and stab him, but he was still armed with a sword. Tell me if that was murder.

"Then, tell me what you rule against Lord Maurice. I . . . will not kill him for this. Though he deserves it. Not if he leaves me and mine in peace. And if he steps down as lord of the Marchlands. If he will acknowledge Belle and our son, Baelfire, as his heirs and step down in Bae's favor, he can live in quiet retirement—perhaps in some _simple_ village—and I'll let him live out the rest of his days in peace."

"And if not?" the prince asked.

Rumplestiltskin shrugged. "Nothing. My deal with the Marchlands is done. The food, the protection I've given them, that's over. And I may let some of their neighbors know I have no interest in protecting them. If an enemy of theirs asks for my help . . . well, I do have a living to earn. And a family to support. I'm sure you'd understand a man working his trade."

Princess Ariel looked at him curiously. "Excuse me, but you'd settle down and help your wife rule the Marchlands? No offense, but I don't think you'd be good at it."

Rumplestiltskin bowed. "We are in complete agreement, your highness. That's why I was hoping whichever one of you becomes the monarch of this little glen could appoint a regent till my son comes of age. Or longer. He won't have to rule the place if he doesn't want to."

"Wait," Maurice said, looking up. "The boy—the boy isn't dead?"

Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. "Haven't you been listening? The apple was poisoned with the sleeping _curse_. If there's one thing you can bet on when it comes to curses is that I know how to lift them. Despite your best attempts, he's fine. And, so help me, I can think of no better revenge than to have _the weaver's brat_ inherit everything you have and be lord in your place. But, not if the child doesn't want it. You aren't _important_ enough to make the boy miserable just to get back at you." He turned his attention back to the royals. "Well, will you sit in judgment? Convene your court, ask your questions? I will abide by your ruling."

Snow White and David-James-Charming looked skeptical at that. Ariel asked, "Excuse me, maybe this was supposed to be obvious to everyone, but was the Captain Jones your wife was sold to the same Captain Jones you're supposed to have helped Ursula capture?"

"The same, your highness."

Ariel looked at Maurice. "You would have made your daughter marry _him?_ When I wanted to marry Eric, every mermaid in the seas reminded me what happened the last time one of us fell for a human. When I was little, I had nightmares from the stories my big sisters told me about him. He had the most terrible death of any human who's ever upset a sea witch, and there are still merfolk who say he got off too easy. And you wanted _him_ in the family?" She turned to Rumplestiltskin. "I think you'd be a lot better than him."

Rumplestiltskin bowed again. "A gentleman never argues with a lady."

There was a skeptical snort from Queen Snow.

"Outlaw princesses are another matter. I’ll argue with them all I want. Well, what do you say? Shall we get on with this?"

Maurice's skin had a gray, almost dead cast. He looked at his guests, royals, nobles, and commoners. Then, he looked at Belle. "It's unnecessary," he said. "The Marchlands need the Dark One's support. Belle, I name you as my heir. My titles I pass onto your son, Baelfire. May he rule in wisdom." For a moment, he looked like he might say more. Instead, he walked down from the dais where the high table stood and walked out of the hall. He did not look back. No one followed him.

Belle watched him go, stricken. She expected Rumplestiltskin to giggle and make a joke, getting in the last word. Instead, he put his arms around her, holding her close.


	27. Beginnings

Maurice went to his study and began straightening papers, sorting them and adding notes for his . . . successors. It was his final duty and he meant to do it well. He didn't know how long he had been working when he felt eyes watching him.

He looked up and saw the Dark One. The Dark One or. . . . "Is your name really Rumplestiltskin?"

The Dark One shrugged. "It was the name I married Belle under."

"And the stories of your cowardice in battle?"

The Dark One grinned, showing his brown fangs. "Let's just say it wasn't the right time for me to be slaughtering Ogres. Not that I didn't kill plenty of them later."

"You wanted nothing to do with her when you made your bargain. Just the boy."

The Dark One's cheerful malice faded into something colder and much more deadly. "I thought Bae was all I wanted. And I was stupid enough to believe Belle wanted to be here, that she wanted that tall oaf you'd paired her with."

Maurice winced. Gaston, the greatest warrior in the Marchlands—perhaps all of Avonlea—was gone. "Don't mock a dead man. He was my kinsman and my heir. What did you do to Belle, to make her turn on him?"

"Nothing," the Dark One said. He laughed bitterly. "I did nothing for her. But, that was better than what you did to her. The  _nothing_ I gave her let her have the time to finally lick the wounds you and Jones and that murdering dead man—oh, excuse me, that  _respected,_ murdering dead man—inflicted on her."

"He's dead. Don't speak ill of him." He was reprimanding the Dark One, not that it mattered. There was nothing worse the demon could do to him.

But, instead of being angry, the Dark One giggled. "Oh, I'm not speaking ill, dearie. I'm holding my tongue and being as  _respectful_  as a priest praying over a grave. Believe me, if I wasn't, your ears would be burned to ashes with what I have to say."

Maurice snorted. "Do you expect me to apologize? Belle's reputation may have been tainted, but I did the best I could for her. I tried to make her the next lady of the Marchlands despite the boy—or what I thought the boy was."

"Really? And did you ever once ask Belle what she wanted? You nearly killed her with your kindness—if she hadn't had a son who needed her to survive, you would have. He's what kept her alive all these years, not you."

"It's easy for you to judge, isn't it?" Maurice snapped. "It was bad enough when I thought the boy was a coward's brat. Instead, he was spawned by—by—whatever it is you are. At least, Gaston didn't have to lie and pretend to be human to get Belle into his bed."

"Oh, I think 'pretending to be human' is exactly what Gaston did. And, whatever I am, I wouldn't deny my own child. If I had a daughter who needed my protection, I would give it to her—and to her child. I wouldn't sell them to the first man who asked."

"You say that so easily," Maurice said. "As if the past didn't matter. What would you have done if Belle  _had_  had Gaston's child—or Jones'? You're telling me that child would be safe from you?"

The Dark One took a step back. For a moment, seeing the shocked look in his eyes—as if the Dark One were really seeing just such a child in front of him—Maurice felt triumphant. Then, the Dark One's eyes changed, filling with some feeling Maurice couldn't name, something deep and unreadable. "I've done darker deeds than you would believe, Lord Mau—excuse me,  _Commoner_ _Maurice_ _._ But, I don't take revenge on children for their parents' crimes." The mockery went out of him. "Little as you may understand it, I love your daughter. And I would love any child of hers." The mocking light came back into his grin. "Though I could only hope any child of Gaston's would have  _her_  brain and not  _his._

"However, that's not what I came here to tell you. You see, as a respectful son-in-law, I wanted to  _assure_  you of my good intentions. Your daughter would be  _terribly_  distressed if anything awful—well, anything  _too_  awful—happened to you. It would be unpleasant all around if you tried for some final, melodramatic gesture, don't you think? A body found hanging from the rafters with a little note extolling your innocence and blaming difficult relatives for hounding you over your good intentions. So, I want you to be the first to know, you can't do it." He wiggled his fingers. "A little precaution. You can think about it, if you like—you can think about it all you like—you just won't be able to  _do_  anything about it.

"Oh, and another thing. Names have power, even ridiculous, false ones that, honestly, no one sober could ever come up with. Not that I'm admitting anything. Real or not, I don't like the sound of my name on your tongue. You won't be able to speak it to anyone after this. Or to write it. Or to play little games of charades to try and get people to guess what it is or even how many syllables. You won't even be able to think it. Just so you know."

His name must have some power if he guarded it that closely. Maurice opened his mouth to try and say it, but nothing came out. He struggled. He knew this name, this ridiculous name that (the Dark One was right) only a drunkard could have come up with. Or a mad imp who thought it was amusing to seduce a peasant girl and let her think he was her husband. "Why don't you kill me?" Maurice asked. "That would keep me silent. Or put a curse on me. Make me pay for what you think I've done."

The mockery drained out of the Dark One again. He looked at Maurice with his inhuman eyes.

"You hurt my son." He raised a hand before Maurice could start to protest. "I know your excuses. You were a lord with a duty to your land and people. You thought Gaston would be better for the Marchlands and you didn't want to endanger that. But, Bae was one of those people, and a lord who has to buy his rule at the cost of murdering children doesn't deserve to be lord. Not in my opinion, and I've had a few centuries to see how it turns out for lords who think the way you do.

"And you hurt Belle, even though she was your own daughter. Because it was easier for you. Because it spared you embarrassment not to admit you were her father even when she was  _dying_  for just one word of kindness." He said the word  _dying_  as if he meant it, as if Belle's life really had been in danger. Ridiculous. And sentimental. Whatever taint she'd picked up in the Frontlands—and through her . . .  _union_  with this creature—Belle was still the daughter of an old, proud line. She had good blood in her and, until this demon got ahold of her again, she had always done her duty.

The Dark One looked at him as though he could read his thoughts. He shrugged and gave up listing Maurice's 'crimes.' Shaking his head, the Dark One said, "Despite everything, they're alive because of you. You may have had second thoughts after, but you saved them from Jones. Your curse saved them from the Ogres when I didn't even know to look for them here. No matter what else you've done—or tried to do—I owe you for that.

"And Belle loves you." He said it as though it were the most ridiculous thing in the world. "She shouldn't. You don't deserve it. But, she loves you. In spite of everything, she's happier with a world with you in it. And I want her to be happy." The moment of seriousness vanished. The Dark One grinned, feral and vicious. "I just think she'll be happier in a world with you as far away from her as possible.

"So, go and live your life, Maurice. Enjoy being a peasant. Cultivate your garden. I don't care. Just know that I'm taking away your power to ever hurt your daughter again."

X

Later, Rumplestiltskin stood beside Belle as she checked in on a sleeping Bae. For the first two days after reviving their son from the sleeping curse, she had barely been able to be apart from him. Truth be told, Rumplestiltskin had had a hard time pulling himself away even for matters that had to be dealt with.  It was a good thing he’d been able to check LeFou’s distance from the Marchlands (and slow or speed it as necessary) from a distance.  Otherwise, wonderfully dramatic as it had been, it just wouldn’t have been worth the trouble of having him arrive at exactly the right time.

Even knowing the Doves were there and all the castle's magical defenses were in place to protect Bae, it had been hard for Belle to leave him behind and confront Maurice. They’d thought about bringing Bae with them.  He understood some of what had happened to him, but they hadn't explained his grandfather's part in it—or that Maurice _was_  his grandfather. Maurice's abdication made it so they'd said less about what Belle endured than Rumplestiltskin had expected, but it was still more than a child should have to hear. It had been right to leave him behind. It just hadn't been easy.

They had returned late—becoming rulers, even in absentia, wasn't something that could just be straightened out in an evening. Bae had already been asleep; but Belle needed to see him, to watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and to feel the living warmth of his cheek against her hand.

At least, now, having assured herself he was alive and well, she could turn and leave. Depending on her nightmares, she might return later that night. Still, Belle was getting better, however slowly. They all were.

She let him go with her to her room. Rumplestiltskin had drawn the bits and pieces of the house he'd made for her into the castle (Gaston's friends, deciding to verify LeFou's panicked garble, hadn't known what to think when Belle's house simply wasn't there). Belle's bedroom and sitting room were right next to Bae's chambers—a side door opened from the playroom into the sitting room so, if  _Bae_  woke up from a nightmare (the ordinary kind, Rumplestiltskin had taken steps to protect him from the ones the sleeping curse brought), he wouldn't have to run through the hallways to reach his mother's side.

They had a small ritual for how they got ready for bed. He knew Belle felt easier with him there. She also felt easier changing behind a screen and with Rumplestiltskin turning away. So, that was what he did, looking away and picking up the small book Princess Ariel had impulsively drawn out of her pocket (mermaids, of course, never had pockets. Ariel thought they were wonderful and had them sewn into all her clothes, including ball gowns). Knowing the sort of things the princess collected, Rumplestiltskin had wondered what kind of  _very_ odd odds-and-ends she would pull out this time, and had been surprised to see something as normal—and appropriate—as a book. It was a mistake to confuse the mermaid's naïveté with a lack of intelligence. Looking at the cover, Rumplestiltskin saw it was the poem  _Sabrina Fair._ He opened it up at random and read,

 _Fool, do not boast. Against the threats_  
_Of malice or of sorcery, or that power_ _  
_Which erring men call Chance, this I hold firm:_  
_Virtue may be o'ercome, but yet unbroken,_  
_Struck down by unjust force, but not enslaved.__

_Though this my flesh be bound in dungeon grim_

_Thou canst not touch the unpolluted temple of my mind. . . ._

He remembered this story. An innocent—but very strong-minded—maiden was captured by an evil fiend. In the way of evil fiends, at least in poetry, he tormented her and engaged in long arguments in blank verse. The maiden, strong heart unbroken, told him that, though he could do what he would to her body, he had no power to over her soul which remained unstained by his crimes.

It was surprisingly insightful, assuming Ariel knew what she had given Belle. Even if the villain, with all his magical power, sounded a bit too much like the Dark One.

_The unpolluted temple of my mind._

Gaston and Jones had touched Belle's heart and mind, hurting both. But, their crimes were their own. Belle's unpolluted soul still shown, bright and beautiful as any star.

"The princesses liked you," he told her. "Ariel especially."

"I liked her," Belle admitted. "But, I'm not sure about Snow White. She . . . doesn't like you."

"What, because she doesn't think I'm a gentleman?" He put the book down. "I'm not. And the little queen knows better than to hold it against me. She married a shepherd, after all, not a prince. And, she trusts me. For a certain value of trust. She's worried for you, afraid you've made some deal with me you shouldn't have. Once she accepts I'm not forcing you to be here, she'll be easier to deal with. And she'll look out for you, either way."

"It's . . . strange," Belle said. "To have people trying to protect me." She stepped out from behind the screen. Her nightgown was thick flannel, hiding more than even Belle's high-collared mourning gowns had. Rumplestiltskin pulled down the blankets for her. He didn't watch as she got into bed, taking his own turn behind the screen.

"You deserve to be protected," he told her. "If I could make everything in this world swear not to harm you, down to the smallest blade of grass, I would."

"There are stories like that," Belle said. "They never end well."

"Which is the only reason why I'm not doing it. But, the royals will look out for you. And they'll look out for the Marchlands, too."

"The stewards you discussed," Belle said. "Locksley and Lancelot, you think they'd do a good job taking care of the Marchlands?"

"Lancelot has more experience dealing with nobles," Rumplestiltskin said. "After the upset we caused today, they might need someone like him to restore order and keep the court from worrying I'll come to collect their heads in the night."

"You won't, will you?" Belle said anxiously.

Rumplestiltskin stepped out from behind the screen. He was wearing nightclothes as thick and concealing as Belle's. He wore his human face for her here, in the castle (the royals wouldn't have recognized him if he hadn't been all scales and fangs), but he still hid his human-seeming body.

"I promised you I wouldn't. If they can keep away from any murder attempts, they should be safe enough." Now, LeFou and Gaston's trio of stooges he still had plans for, though the royals expected them to have a fair trial and no unjust punishments. That was all right. Being transformed and forced to live as a wild beast till you could prove you'd learned the error of your ways was just enough, wasn't it? And, given what he'd seen of that bunch's learning curve, it could be centuries before he had to think about them again.

"What about Locksley?" Belle asked. "You said you'd had difficulties in the past."

"He tried to rob me," Rumplestiltskin said. "I . . ."  _tortured him for several days to find out who had put him up to it and would have killed him once he answered._ He didn't think Belle would appreciate that, even if Locksley had tried to kill him first with that magic bow of his.  _". . ._  let him know I did not take kindly to that. It might have ended badly for him, but his wife came to beg me to let him go. She was carrying their first child. And she was dying. She couldn't even stand on her own. Her servant, an old woman, had to practically carry her through my door."

" _A loyal wife," Rumplestiltskin had said. "I didn't know there was such a thing. For the sake of novelty, then, you can have your thief back. In return, you will each owe me something, you, your thief, and your child. . . ._

"I healed her," he told Belle—and he'd done a better job of it than Locksley would have with that wand he'd tried to steal. Amateurs. "And I let her take Locksley with her. He owes me a favor. He's not as good with nobles as Lancelot, but he's a fair organizer and he knows how to help people in need. He'd do a good job helping the Marchlands rebuild after all they've been through."

"Perhaps they could work together," Belle said.

"Perhaps," Rumplestiltskin said. "But, both those two have had problems with people ordering them around in the past.  It doesn't matter if it's a sheriff or a king. I don't know if they'd get along." He grinned. "It might be worth it just to see what happens."

Belle had the blankets of the bed pulled up around her. He lay on top of them beside her, only pulling the coverlet up over both of them. They weren't lovers, not yet—perhaps not ever, though Rumplestiltskin had hopes that would change as her wounds healed. She wanted him by her side while she slept. When she woke from nightmares, finding his arms around her comforted her and brought her peace.

She'd told him, after that first night when Bae had been saved, that she knew he wanted more from her. He remembered how sick and drained she'd looked, just saying that. The thought of a man—any man—touching her made her ill. And Maurice and Jones and Gaston had taught her that was the price she had to pay—worse, that was what she already  _owed—_  to any man who said he'd protect her.

He would have liked to kill Gaston and Jones all over again.

Telling her that wouldn't have helped. Neither would setting fire to the room with a few, well aimed curses, though he was sorely tempted. He thought about lying, too, though he hadn't done that in about three hundred years (those had been the promises he'd made Morraine, to keep her safe and looked after.  He never meant to fail to keep his word again). Finally, he told her the truth, hard as it was.

"Belle, I want things between us to be the way they were before the war, before Hordor, before everything." He touched her cheek gently. "I know that can't happen. But, if it can't. . . ." he thought of all the things he wished could be changed or set right. If Maurice had sent Belle back to him, would he have been able to heal the hurts Jones had left on her? Or, simple, foolish man that he was then, would his fumbling attempts to help her only have made them worse?

 _I would have loved you,_ he thought.  _No matter what I did or didn't understand, I would have loved you._

Maybe it would have been enough.

"If it can't, I never want you to look at me the way you looked at Gaston. I never want you to be afraid because you wake up and realize I'm beside you. Nothing— _nothing—_ is worth giving that up."

 _You're like ice,_ he thought, thinking of the fragile laces forming on glass in winter.  _And, if I take more from you than you're ready to give, everything I love will melt and slip through my fingers._

Tonight, she nestled closer to him. "You can see the future, can't you?" she asked. "Can you see where things are going for us?"

"The future is hard to catch of hold of," Rumplestiltskin said. "It changes or becomes something you never expected, even when you thought you saw clearly. I saw glimpses of you and Bae before I reached the Marchlands, but I never understood the truth of them. Now . . . I see futures where we're . . . content." He hesitated, "I think—I think I even see futures where we're happy."

Belle leaned against him. He could feel the tension in her as she decided whether or not to say tell him something. "I—I don't think that's our future," she said. "I—I think—maybe—it's already happened. Or it's beginning to. Don't you?"

"A gentleman never argues with a lady," he whispered. "Especially when she's right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sabrina Fair: The verse Rumplestiltskin reads is adapted from Comus by Milton. Some scholars believe Comus was meant to represent the case of Margery Evans, a rape victim of the time. Although a fantasy, Comus has several points in common with the real case. It was also written for the Earl of Bridgewater, who had championed Margery Evans when local authorities wouldn't prosecute her attacker. As such, it seemed like a fitting gift for Belle
> 
> Robin in this world isn't Regina's true love. I'm not sure what happened to Regina in this world. She may have stayed evil to the end and died (possibly while being tricked into helping Rumple get into the Marchlands) or it may be that Daniel survived in this world and the two of them found their own happily ever after. I really don't know. Rumple spared Robin's life when a pregnant Marian realized he'd been captured trying to save her and forced herself to go to the Dark Castle and beg for his life.
> 
> Lancelot is not dead in this world and isn't Cora in disguise.
> 
> I'm fairly sure Cora is dead by the time this happens.
> 
> By the way, Rumple keeps his true name hidden in this world as a minor safety precaution. If someone does finds his dagger, they won't know what the name on it means. He's found other ways to know if people are wanting to summon him to make a deal.
> 
> Although it's not a major point, Zelena was either never born in this AU or died without ever laying a hand on the dagger.
> 
> For anyone wanting to read any other stories I've written, I've posted most of those at fanfiction.net under Ellynne and Kelaine729. There are a few stories posted at AO3 under Ellynne and I hope to be bringing others over. I started using the Kelaine name for this story, which is darker than some of the others. I knew at least one younger reader I didn't want reading it.


	28. Chapter 28

The links on the TEAs were having difficulty connecting to the stories. I decided to bump this up to make it easier to find. Hope that's OK.


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